Gothic
by author-self-insert
Summary: 10 yrs ago, Edward was accused of murder & Bella was his alibi. Today, the murder is still unsolved & Bella hates Edward. Can a penchant for gothic mystery, a hearty dose of lingering hostility & a desire for justice really right old wrongs? Inspired by old newspaper serials. AH HEA
1. Chapter 1

**Meyer owns all except the plot, which is mine, and Seth's character, which was inspired by harperpitt's story **_**You Were There**_**. **

**FANFIC TIMES**

_All the news that the others won't print_

_Murder of Local Girl Remains Unsolved_

By Ambrose Bierce

Forks and Port Angeles continue to mourn the death of local teen…

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_City Debates Fate of Abandoned Cabin_

By T. de Quincey

Complaints of vandalism and wild parties have once again prompted the city to question…

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_Gothic_

A weekly serial written by author-self-insert

"Prologue"

I had always imagined that I would wake up in a dungeon one day.

I had imagined chains and manacles. Or at least handcuffs. I had imagined floggers, too, made from rabbit fur, or rather _faux_ rabbit, for of course my dungeon would be (animal) cruelty free.

With compliments to the Marquis de Sade, fantasies of sex dungeons are _de rigueur_ when you study the Gothic.

But I certainly never imagined that Edward Cullen would be locked inside the dungeon with me.

And if I may say so, it was all decidedly less sexy than I'd hoped.

**AN: Occasional breaks in the narrative will occur in the form of "fake" chapters with "articles" and "advertisements," in keeping with the inspiration of the gothic serials that would appear chapter by chapter in weekly or monthly periodicals, buried amongst news and ads. These periodicals would also run contests for readers to suggest solutions; hence, the inclusion of actual reviewer guesses. Feel free to skip these chapters – they contain nothing relevant to the plot. **

**~ 23 chapters**

**~ 2000 – 4000 word chapters**

**Unbetaed**

**Rated M for language, weak attempts at politically incorrect humor here and there (I've been told that I'm mean and/or my Bella is mean), and a lemon in the far off distant future. There are references to acts of violence and literary works of horror, but no grisly descriptions. And alas, despite the above, no BDSM.**

**Mostly BPOV**

**I've been told that I make a lot of obscure references. You can "solve" this murder case without looking any of them up. If you want to know what something means, feel free to PM me. I'll probably just tell you that I picked it from Google at random. Reading should be fun—I like it when a writer can throw something at me that I don't recognize, it adds to the aura of mystery. Best!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Meyer owns characters and I own plot.**

Chapter 1

'_Ask what you please, and I will tell you everything. But my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness.' Sheridan LeFanu_

BPOV

"I want to know how he's changed," Alice said.

"He hasn't. People don't change," I warned her.

"Bullshit. _We've_ changed."

I snorted, not wanting to have this debate, but she continued nonetheless. "All of the cells in our bodies get replaced a million times a day so we must change."

"I don't think that's how it works," I hazarded.

She waved a hand dismissively.

"He won't remember you," I said.

"Isn't that the point? That we all grow up and get over that crap?" she asked, smoothing down her dress.

I huffed. Far be it from me to stop anyone from doing as they pleased, even if they were being entirely irrational.

Besides, maybe she was right. Maybe _she_ had changed. After all, she was sitting at the bar wearing a fucking Versace dress, a fact that I would not have known had she not have informed me of it upon her arrival. I suspected that she'd worn Versace for precisely this reason, so that she could name drop, and because the frock was a staid _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ number that made her look as if she had _arrived._ It wasn't exactly Alice's usual avant garde fare. She was still the same underneath, however. In fact, I was sure that she was still the same on the surface—she could have sewn that hackneyed Versace design with her eyes closed in high school. But back then she was a freak and now she owned a boutique.

I hadn't changed though. I was exactly the same. Staying true to myself even if everyone else was being a hypocrite. I might have gotten over the oversized jeans and flannels that had once served me so well, but I wasn't walking around in fuck-me heels and fishnet stockings trying to make up for a misspent youth. I dressed like a mature tax-paying adult, most of the time anyhow. At that very moment, for instance, I happened to be wearing a schoolmarmish white top with fancy pleats, a black cardigan, a narrow black skirt with buttons up the side and Mary Jane loafers. I might have been trying to fulfill some retro noir fantasy, but it was work appropriate and not even skin tight at a size 8.

I wasn't surprised by Alice's behavior, unfortunately. To be sure, I was the one responsible for her invitation to this particular happy hour. The ramifications for not extending this invite would have been serious. The mixer had been occasioned by the arrival of a certain Jasper Hale to the department and, therefore, should probably have been limited to faculty, adjuncts and secretaries, but we never followed those rules. So there was nothing to stop me from facilitating Alice's dream of _Getting Jasper Hale to See the Real Mary Alice Brandon._ This was the sort of fantasy that should have been dropped ten years ago when we left Forks, but Alice was a dreamer. I gave her points for consistency.

We were the first to arrive, something that I could not blame on Alice as I was often the first to come and the first to go. I knew the place would fill up fast, so I told Alice to wait at the bar for our drinks while I claimed a table, and by the time she joined me, Angela Weber and Sandra Cope had also arrived.

I made introductions and asked Angela how the wedding preparations were going, knowing full well that this question would provide an intriguing topic of conversation for the others currently present, if not myself. True to form, they looked at pictures on Angela's phone and debated fabrics that I couldn't have identified had my life depended on it. Fortunately, enough people had arrived by the time that they moved on to cake flavors that I didn't have to worry about lulls in the conversation. I managed to throw in enough remarks or questions here and there to seem sufficiently engaged.

For the most part, I just listened. I sometimes wondered what passersby thought of the conversations they overheard from our department get-togethers at this bar. Debates over whether or not Charlemagne was circumcised and the applicability of literary theory to trial records from the Reign of Terror. Those of us who weren't completely daft threw in some random topics for the non-geeks present, but with the exception of the department secretaries and the random add-ons like Alice, we were all of us introverts pretending for a few hours every couple of weeks to be extroverts, so it was never the social scene d'jour.

When a new round of drinks was wanted and the waitress was nowhere to be seen, I naturally volunteered to go to the bar, thereby winning points for generosity and gaining a temporary reprieve from the festivities. By the time that I returned to the table, however, Jasper had arrived and had taken my seat, next to Alice. This was convenient for Alice, so I made no move to dislodge him, instead leaning up against a post at the opposite end of the table and asking Alistair how his research was going, assured as I was that he would go on for a while about this and not expect more than an occasional nod from me. Alistair did not offer me his seat and I didn't ask for it.

The place had become quite crowded by then and I was never the sort to interest myself in the goings on about me. So I was completely unprepared for the appearance of the newest arrival at my side. Alistair was trying to explain the difference between two popular statistical models for demographic changes due to the Black Plague—_put a bullet in my head_—when I heard a voice saying my name. No, not _my _name. My old nickname. The one I never used anymore. Izzy.

I looked up into forest green eyes and involuntarily stepped back, but the post was behind me so there was nowhere to go.

"How are you?" he asked.

I didn't reply.

He swallowed and looked down in a move that looked suspiciously like discomfort. And the Edward Cullen that I remembered was never uncomfortable. He was always the center of attention in any setting. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you. Jasper said that you would be here and I just wanted to see you."

I scoffed. I didn't see why _he_ would want to see me. Jasper, indeed. I might not have recognized Edward at all, had it not been for Jasper's recent appearance in the department jogging my memory. Reminding me of things I'd rather not remember at all.

Edward, I could see, had the same green eyes and the same red hair, but these were not unique to him. And his face was the same, I supposed, the jaw square and the nose slightly bent. But did I really remember these details or did I just think that I did? I didn't know. I didn't like looking at him at all.

His appearance gave nothing away. A plain button down gray shirt and black slacks. A common professional. What the fuck was he doing here?

"Bella?" Alistair interrupted.

I glanced down and saw Alistair eyeing me questioningly. Of course, there were rules to social discourse. They had been violated, hadn't they? And quite rudely. Edward Cullen had barged into our discussion. I was not surprised by this show of arrogance on his part. But it would have compounded the violation to chastise Edward for his behavior. It would be much better to pretend that it had never happened. To pretend that Edward hadn't the power to do anything that could touch me.

"Alistair, this is Edward Cullen. Edward, this is Alistair Woods. He teaches Medieval Studies at the university."

Alistair and Edward shook hands. "I'm a friend of Jasper," Edward said, motioning across the table to the individual in question. "I work at CHOP."

_At CHOP? _How long had he been in Seattle?

"A doctor?" Alistair asked, supplying the question that I wanted to ask myself but never would.

Edward nodded, seeming uncomfortable again, though I didn't know why. There wasn't any compelling reason for him to waste his time at a function like this. Didn't doctors have their own happy hours? Were Jasper and he really so inseparable after all of these years?

"I am currently working on a historiography of epidemiology," Alistair replied, blinking furiously. "And have been looking for a contact from the scientific community. My particular area of interest is thirteenth century France. A small town in France, in fact. I wonder if you've ever heard of it. It's called—"

Normally, I didn't mind Alistair, but listening to him drone on while Edward was standing right there wasn't something that I was prepared to endure. "What do you know?" I broke in, shaking my beer bottle. "All out. Do you mind?" I looked at Edward, waiting for him to move out of my way.

"Oh, sorry." He backed up and I slid past him as quickly as possible, hoping to make a smooth exit, which of course meant that I caught my foot on the leg of Alistair's chair and stumbled. Edward caught me, his hands gripping the upper part of my arms, and straightened me up. I mumbled a _thanks_ and escaped to the bar with my dignity by no means intact, but grateful to have gotten away.

One doesn't like to think that childish pranks at least a decade old still have the power to wound. And they don't, not really. I could hardly remember any of that anyhow. But like a Christian who's never read the Old Testament, I still knew the moral of the story.

"Do you prefer the name Bella?" Edward asked behind me.

I froze, and then forced myself to relax and turn towards him. "Bella, yes." Then I thought about _him_ calling me _Bella_ and what that might imply. "No—" Then I imagined him reverting to _Izzy_, hearing that nickname from his lips again. "Whatever. Whatever you want to call me. I don't care," I lied. I didn't want to hear him saying my name, regardless of which one he chose to use. I didn't want to speak to him at all.

"Okay," he seemed uncertain. "Is this alright? Me being here?"

"Why wouldn't it?" I asked. _Yes, Edward, please tell me why the fuck you shouldn't be here. I dare you to admit it._

"I just don't want to upset you."

"Why would you upset me?"

He smiled faintly, relieved. "It's good to see you."

I raised an eyebrow, unable to believe that.

"You look good," he said, giving me an up and down look that I didn't like. "You've changed."

I cocked my head to the side. "I've changed?"

"I nearly didn't recognize you."

Of course. If I looked good, I _must_ have changed.

"But you _did_ recognize me," I pointed out.

"Jasper said you would be here."

I looked back at the table. Jasper and Alice seemed deeply engrossed in their discussion. Jasper hadn't told me anything about bringing Edward, not that I would have expected him to share such information. He had approached me after the previous day's department meeting to say _Hello_ and _Isn't it surprising that we're both working here_ and _Wouldn't it be great to catch up on old times_. To which I'd replied _Hi_ and _I suppose so_ and shrugged. That had been the end of it until later that afternoon, when Jasper had received my department-wide email about the happy hour and had stopped by my office.

"So you must be the social butterfly around here," Jasper had said, leaning up against my doorframe.

"Not really."

I had not returned the smile. His began to fade.

"But, uh, Angela said that you plan all the social functions." There was still a Texas twang to Jasper's speech. I bet he had a tattoo that read _The South will rise again_.

_Rise? _I wondered. _To do what?_

"I do." It was true. I planned the birthday parties, the retirement parties, the engagement parties, the baby showers and the happy hours. The secretaries resented having to do it themselves and the other professors were above such menial labor. Besides, it was an easy win. I got credit for caring without doing anything that actually required meaningful human interaction.

"Oh." He had looked confused. I didn't care to clarify the matter.

And now here I was, at said happy hour, facing an old acquaintance—though the term _acquaintance_ didn't seem right. It was too warm. _Old enemy_? No, that suggested intimacy. _Person or persons who, for a time, had made my life a living hell_. That was more like it.

Jasper Hale alone was bad enough, and yet here was Edward Cullen. It was too much. But perhaps Alice was right. We _had_ changed. _I looked good _after all. Ha!

The civilized thing would be to feign indifference, to pretend that old slights had never occurred. Yes, that would be the thing to do.

I forced a smile and stood taller, taking a swig—an actual swig—of my newly procured beer. "So you're a doctor," I said moving to return to the table.

"Do you mind," Edward asked, running a hand through his hair. "Can we just stay here for a minute?" He gestured to the empty stools before us standing at the bar.

"Why?" I couldn't help it. A flicker of suspicion made me wary.

"I want to talk to you, if you don't mind."

I did mind. But what could he do to me? In the public like this? And I didn't want him to think that I was afraid of him.

"Alright." I sat down on one of the stools and began studying the wall of liquor behind the bar.

"How have you been?" Edward asked. The reflection of the glass above the bottles showed him gazing at me.

"Fine." I took another swing.

"When Jasper said that you were working at the university, I couldn't believe it. I mean, what are the chances that he'd get a job at the university you were already working at?"

I hmmed.

"And I've been in Seattle all this time and didn't even know that you were here," he went on.

"Why would you?" I hazarded a glance at him then.

"What?"

"Why would you know that I was here?" I asked.

"No reason, I guess. There's no reason I should know. We didn't have the same friends."

No, we didn't. Shaking my head, I wondered why I'd ever let myself be so cowed by this man. But maybe I wasn't being fair to myself. High school had been such a totalizing experience. Thirty-five hours of pure hell every week.

"What do you teach?" he asked.

"Early Modern through the Enlightenment. Specialty in the Victorian."

"Oh. I don't know anything about that."

I hardly expected otherwise. I smiled wanly.

There was a beat of silence. How much was I expected to contribute to this conversation? I didn't think that the social rules applied. I didn't work with him and I didn't care if I ever saw him again.

"Do you think we could get coffee some time?" Edward inquired suddenly.

"What?"

"Coffee?"

I gaped at him for a moment. "Why would _you_ want to have coffee with _me_?" This was above and beyond. I wasn't Alice, so lacking in self-esteem that I required validation from old nemeses.

"There's something I need to talk about with you."

"What could we possibly have to say to one another?"

"It's important."

I waved a hand. "So talk."

Edward glanced around. "It's too loud here. I'd rather we spoke somewhere less—less crowded."

"And you suggest a coffee shop in Seattle?" I laughed.

"You could come to my condo."

I choked on my beer. After several embarrassing seconds trying to clear my throat as Edward motioned to pound on my back only for me to knock his hand away, I asked him again: "Why?"

"Because you're the only one who knows that I'm not a murderer."

**AN: I wonder what Edward did to Bella to make her so wary…**

**Question: Does the style of exposition match up with the dialogue, or is there too much of a disconnect? This is a standing question for every chapter.**

**Recommendation: My goal is to recommend old stories that you may never have heard of. I'm going by "number of reviews" to determine how well they are known, and since I'm out of the gossip loop, I may just end up recommending reposts that everyone's already heard of. Oh well.**

**First recommendation: Bookends by Bella's Executioner **

**AH/AU Edward and Bella are two lost souls in a sea of lost souls… but love conquers all. Right? Rated M for harsh language/Lemons/Slash/mature content/Drug Use. The story spans the lives of these characters**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns characters. I own plot.**

Chapter 2

'_The strangeness of the figure, and its being so close akin to his own nature, attracted him.' – Bram Stoker_

BPOV

I opened the envelope and scanned the letter, suspecting already the sort of thing that I would read:

'_The strangeness of the figure, and its being so close akin to his own nature, attracted him.'_

I didn't recognize the quote, though it was familiar. By the time that I made it to my office and clicked on my computer, I was sure that it was James Malcolm Rymer.

I was, of course, incorrect. Bram Stoker, _The Lair of the White Wyrm_.

The dried flower included inside the envelope was completely foreign to me. Perfectly white with a yellow center. I knew enough to conclude that it wasn't a rose, but that was the limit of my horticultural expertise.

I had received at least twenty letters just like this over the last two years. All of them delivered to the university, forwarded by the college press who'd published my dissertation in book form. The envelopes varied, but inside I always found a single dried flower and a sheet of paper containing a handwritten quote from a seemingly random piece of Gothic literature. Neither the flowers nor the quotes were ever repeated.

As the daughter of a police chief, I should perhaps have been more concerned. But as the daughter of a police chief, I also knew that there was nothing the police could do. None of the letters contained any sort of threat, per se, and even if they had been intended as a threat, couched in the form of quotations, they could hardly be taken seriously.

I doubted my father would take such a laissez-faire view of the matter. I had never mentioned the letters them to him.

As much as I didn't want to admit it, I probably relished the receipt of these missives a bit more than was appropriate. More than once, I had felt a rush of exhilaration at the notion that I might have a secret admirer. The quotations were probably not the sort to quicken the excitement of many other women, but they were just the sort to appeal to me. Indeed, the strangeness of the language, and its being so akin to my own nature, attracted me.

This was sheer folly. I knew better than to let my imagination run rampant. While I was here imagining Lawrence Olivier as Heathcliff, penning his missives to me with a quill pen and a bottle of black ink, the letters were probably the work of a soccer mom putting herself through community college, who'd come across my book in an introductory English class, and had been moved to imagine herself taking up a friendship via letter—such a romantically (in the platonic sense) old-fashioned form of communication—with a person she'd never met. I wondered if it had even occurred to her that, since I too was a woman, her communications might be considered outré by more plebian minds. Or was that the point? One of those close female friendships of yesteryear to which modern feminists like to affix lesbian labels, not realizing that by so doing they themselves violate a more Freudian version of the Bechdel test.

In any case, this friendship was entirely doomed, for there was no return address and therefore, no way for me to respond. It had occurred to me more than once that I was meant to decode the meaning of the flowers and decipher some hidden message behind the quotations, and thereby learn how to locate my secret correspondent. The small thrill I felt at the suggestion of a mystery always faded as I remembered the mountain of student essays that I had to grade and the outlines waiting to be filled in for lectures and the notes waiting to be collated for my research.

So I added the latest missive to my collection on a far shelf of the bookcase in my office just as a student walked in the door, wanting help with an assignment and asking me why there was so much reading in my class and whether or not it was fair to require modern students to parse out such antiquated language when evolution had clearly decided that the stilted manner of the discourse in question was obsolete. I expressed my sympathies to the young woman, who went by the charming name of Bree and it wasn't even a nickname, confided that I didn't understand any of the abbreviations from today's tweeting or the symbols for emotions that went into texts, but that I did read French, German, Latin, Spanish and Italian, so I didn't think it was too much to ask that students make their way through eighteenth century English.

I had one more student drop by for office hours before I had to leave for the dreaded _coffee_ _with Edward_. It had been exactly one week since he had extended his invitation. I'd fled the bar almost immediately after his request, unable to go on obeying the social niceties with Jasper Fucking Hale's hand on Alice's knee under the table where he thought no one could see it, and Edward Fucking Cullen looking all morose and full of woe when he'd no right to ask for pity from anyone, let alone me. As if anyone really thought he was a murderer. I didn't believe it. _I_ was the one who'd come away from that debacle with the taint of suspicion. _I _was the one they all looked at askance.

I usually left the departmental happy hours relatively early in the evening, so no one raised an eyebrow. It was enough that I went out of my way to arrange these events. I didn't need to close the place down. So I told Alice that she would have to take a taxi, and didn't feel at all guilty for doing so. Besides, she got herself home just fine. She sent me a text at two o'clock the following morning telling me that she was in her apartment and going to bed. I was already asleep, and didn't see the text until I woke up three and a half hours later, but that wasn't the point. The sending and receiving of texts to confirm the safety of fellow females was, I had learned, an important rule of modern etiquette.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Seth called asking if I would be willing to prepare one or two appetizers for his gallery showing and I agreed. He continued calling to go over the menu until I stopped answering. He reverted to texts, which I could decipher if abbreviations and symbols were avoided. I sent him a reply via text saying that I would do a tasting menu for him on Sunday but I wasn't going to go shopping until Saturday afternoon, so I was just going to buy ingredients for whatever his last text at that time read, and I wasn't going to talk to him until he came to townhouse on Sunday. This reduced the number of texts. Slightly.

I managed to avoid Jasper Hale for most of the week. He caught me in the copy room on Wednesday, unfortunately, and kept me there for a full five minutes, telling me how much fun he'd had at the happy hour and thanks for inviting him and it had been so nice to catch up with Alice.

_What the fuck did they have to catch up on?_ I wondered.

I imagined a round of _show me yours and I'll show you mine_: Alice saying, _And here's the number of times I slept with random guys to make up for the numerous occasions on which you suggested that my unattractiveness to the opposite sex implied that I was a lesbian, not that there's anything wrong with being a lesbian, unless of course you aren't one and the implication is intended to manifest your deficiencies and complete inadequacy as a human being._ And Jasper: _Remember all of those times I made fun of the outfits you wore to school because you couldn't afford anything better? Wasn't that funny? I have grown as a person though because when I was in grad school I too shopped at thrift shop now and then because they really have the best hipster paraphernalia around._

I told Jasper that I was happy that he was fitting in so well and to make sure that the head secretary had his birthday because we always liked to do something special.

Asshole.

Then he started talking about Alice and I said that I had to go.

It was like a _Hallmark_ movie: High school bullies and their victims reunited. I suppose the scriptwriter expected us to show how much we'd all _grown_ as people and we'd become the best of friends. Edward and Jasper were no doubt filled with remorse for their past crimes (there is no concern for credibility in the land of _Hallmark_) and so desperate for friendship (they'd learned their lesson darn it!) that they were lowering their standards so far as to seek out the two lowest creatures on the old high school social scale. Perhaps a Ghost from Christmas Past had counseled them to make amends. Of course, losers have no standards so Alice and I would be all too willing to accept the overtures of two reformed assholes. I wonder if the two of us were still losers or if we had somehow _redeemed_ ourselves in the intervening decade and thus were at last _good enough_ for the likes of Mr. Hale and Mr. Cullen.

_Yeah, fuck that._

But I kept my mouth shut about what I really thought, because it was clear that Alice was fairly taken with Jasper. She said that they had exchanged numbers and had spoken several times since. He was _so dreamy_ and exactly the same, she said.

The same? I hardly thought that could be true if she actually enjoyed herself with him, but I deemed it impertinent to point this out and said nothing instead.

And what did this quality of _sameness _entail anyhow? Alice's whole justification for renewed association was dependent on change. The notion that none of us were the same creatures who had attended school together. But there was also, it seemed, the lingering remnants of some kindred spiritedness, forged in the shared experiences of youth, without which mutual interests would not exist. But then again, these experiences weren't really _shared_, were they? There was a world of difference between what the high school experiences of the Edwards and the Bellas.

As for Edward Cullen, I had agreed to meet him for coffee, to prove to myself how much I had grown as a person, but not at his condo. That would have been too much. We were meeting up back at the bar. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon, rather early for drinking but also early enough that the bar would be nearly deserted.

I was anxious. I had to admit that. But my anxiousness just pissed me off. What did I have to be worried about? So what if he _did_ try something? I'd just get up and walk away. Words couldn't really hurt me. I'd long ago perfected my mask. A complete disconnect between myself and the world. Bombs could drop and no would see me flinch, or so I liked to tell myself. Besides, Edward had certainly never laid a hand on me, even back then. His attacks were always verbal in nature. And the notion that he could revert to his old behavior now just seemed so juvenile. _Hell, it'd been juvenile in high school!_

He was waiting when I arrived, and stood up as I approached the table, smiling stupidly.

"You came," he said, stating the obvious. "I was afraid that you wouldn't."

I shrugged. I registered that this gesture was becoming fairly standard where Jasper Hale and Edward Cullen were concerned.

Edward had already ordered us coffees. They arrived just as I was sitting down. "Why did you want to meet?" I asked Edward, wanting to jump straight to the point.

He cleared his throat, seeming anxious. This Edward Cullen was a stranger to me. He'd always been so sure of himself. That cocky arrogance. How I'd hated it. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened."

There could be only one thing he meant. "Why?"

Edward fiddled with his spoon. "Doesn't it bother you? That it's still unresolved?"

I shrugged again, then recognized the beginnings of an unsavory new habit and stiffened. "It doesn't have anything to do with me."

"How can you say that?" The sound of dismay in Edward's voice was really off-putting, almost accusatory. As if I could be held responsible for anything that happened.

"I'm not the police." I waved a hand. "What was I supposed to do?"

"But doesn't it keep you up at night sometimes? Doesn't it—" his tone grew harsh. "A girl died."

"She wasn't my friend."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course."

He looked at me disbelievingly. "I just never thought you would be like this. You of all people. You didn't have to do what you did for me."

"Yes I did."

"No, you didn't. You could have let me rot in jail."

"But I knew that you were innocent."

"And you hated me. Isn't that what you told the police? That's why they believed you in the end. I know. I have a friend now in the Port Angeles police force. He looked into the files for me. I know what you told them. They didn't believe you at first. They thought you were lying because—" He cut off, as if he was embarrassed.

I supplied the missing words. "That I was in love with you, so I lied." I caught a glimpse of my face in the window of the bar and noted that the expression on my face registered no change as the words fell out of my lips. Words that ought to have meant something but meant just the opposite. My body didn't tremble. I'd expected something—some physical counterpart to the horror of the notion that I'd just suggested. That I could have felt anything but abject hatred for Edward Cullen. I felt nothing.

"Yeah. Something like that," he mumbled. Fucking Neanderthal.

"Which couldn't have been further from the truth." Because I was dead inside. And I hated him.

_Hate?_

The word wasn't strong enough.

He said, "I wanted to thank you. I tried that time in the diner."

I held up a hand, not wanting to talk about that time. It had happened right after he was released, an event which inconveniently coincided with the arrival of my mother, Renee, who had stormed into town, claiming that she wanted to make amends but really just waiting to accuse me of lying. _I had lied about her new husband, Phil_, or so she claimed, _so why not lie about Edward Cullen? Was I hoping to get into his bed too? _

"Little slut." That's what she'd called me.

But she hadn't gotten to that part yet, when Edward came up to us in the diner, with my mother gaping at him, a French fry hanging out of her mouth and her make-up smeared. Because God forbid she not show up in my town looking like shit and falling out of clothes that were two-sizes too small.

I didn't let Edward say whatever it was he'd wanted to say to me that day, snapping at him to just "Keep on walking." His friend—what was his name? James, that was it—James had been standing behind Edward in the diner. He'd burst out laughing at my words.

Yet Edward had turned and left, thank God, and I'd felt relieved, sick that he had seen my mother like that, but nonetheless relieved, a feeling that lasted only a beat before my mother started in with the accusations. _Who was that?_ she asked. _Was that Edward Cullen? Why did you lie?_

I didn't want to think about that now. I sipped my coffee and forced my muscles—coiled in the desire to flee—to relax, pushing the memory of my mother's words away. There was no reason to be upset. I had told the truth. Both times.

In any case, I needed to remind Edward just why the police were so suspicious of my motives. He was too grateful for my comfort. "They thought that I took too long. They didn't understand why I didn't come forward right away."

"Why didn't you?"

The question took me aback. Wasn't it obvious? "I was in Florida when everything happened. Visiting my mother. I flew out of Seattle the morning after—the morning after _it_ happened and I didn't know anything about it until I got back. I came home early actually."

"Oh. I guess it was lucky for me that you came home early then."

"Yeah, lucky for you." I'd come home early from Florida thanks to a frantic call to my father, Charlie, in the middle of the night from a pay-phone at the airport, where I'd gone to call him, to beg him to let me come home, not telling him precisely what Phil had done—I couldn't—but saying enough that Charlie arranged for me to fly home immediately. If he hadn't agreed, I don't know what I would have done. Fortunately, I was eighteen, so it was up to me whether or not to see Renee after that. As it so happened, I did see her, just once, that time in the diner back in Forks, where we interrupted by Edward and his friend James. "When I came home," I explained, "I heard what happened. I remembered that I'd seen you in the forest that day when I was hiking. I knew you weren't in Port Angeles. I knew you couldn't have done—_it_."

"Still, you didn't have to come forward."

"Yes I did."

"No you didn't."

"You don't know me."

"I guess I don't."

And cue awkward pause. Why the fuck was I here? "So," I said, "you wanted to thank me, I guess, because I wouldn't let you back then. No _thank you_ was ever necessary. I didn't do it for you. I did it because it was the truth. But you're welcome anyway." I hoped that would be the end of it.

"It's not just that, though yeah, I wanted to say thank you, which I haven't actually said, _thank you_, I mean. So thank you." Did Edward always struggle to express himself like this? Or was this a new development? The slurs he'd thrown at me in high school had certainly been precise and to the point. Maybe that was it—he didn't know how to talk to me while pretending to be nice.

I blinked. "You're welcome," I said again.

"The real reason I wanted to see you, well the other reason, besides saying thank you, was because of what I said at the happy hour. You're the only person who really believes that I'm innocent."

"I'm sure that's not true."

Edward shook his head ruefully. "Well, you're the only one who _knows_. They all say that they all _believe_ that I'm innocent, but you _know _it."

This was ridiculous. "They don't believe me?"

"It's not just you. There was a lie detector test."

"And?"

"I didn't pass."

I gaped at him. "What do you mean, _you didn't pass_? You were in the woods, between Forks and La Push. You couldn't possibly have made it to Port Angeles and back, no matter how fast you drove. You didn't kill her." I used the words that time, not avoiding them. He hadn't _killed _her. This politeness—my effort to avoid being explicit—was in accordance with the rules of etiquette. No one likes to say things so harshly. But words were just sounds strung together. If I avoided them, it was only because I was following the rules, which said that it was better to lie than to cause upset a social gathering.

"I didn't _fail fail_. It was just inconclusive. And I didn't know that you saw me that day. I didn't know that you were in the woods, too. For all I knew, I didn't have an alibi. There was just so much going on. Do you realize how much evidence they had against me? And after everything with my parents. I was just so upset. I thought if I took the test then it would clear me. I guess, I was just too anxious. God," he was running his hands through his hair again. "Do you know what they—_he—whoever—_what theydid to Tanya?"

I knew. Someone had tied her down and drained her blood. She had died of exsanguination. _Exsanguination._ Such an antiquated term. Not one that an eighteen year old living in America should know today.

"Why didn't your lawyer or your parents stop you from taking the test?" I asked, trying to be logical. It probably didn't matter. I _knew_ that he was innocent. But it was rather strange, wasn't it, that he would agree to take a lie detector test that he was going to fail?

"I wasn't listening to them. I was just so pissed. And I was eighteen."

"Pissed? Why were you pissed?" I was almost certain that it was just his ego. He couldn't believe that they really suspected him. What a conceited prick.

"I was fighting with my parents even before it happened. That's why I was in the woods that day."

"What were you fighting about? What could have possibly been so important that it couldn't have been set aside when Tanya was murdered?"

"In retrospect, it was fucking stupid. I was an idiot. But I couldn't deal with them trying to control my life anymore. Almost everything that I did, I did because of them. I wanted to run cross-country but they made me play football. I wanted to take one class, they made me take another. I wanted to take a year off after high school and travel, but they wanted me to go directly to college. My parents even pushed me into dating Tanya. The day of her murder was the last straw. I wanted to major in music. My parents wanted me pre-med."

_Are you fucking kidding me_? "Why didn't you just lie to them? Your parents can't access your college records even if they're footing the bill."

"My father had friends in the science department. He would have known."

"This isn't _Dead Poets' Society._ How important could it really have been?"

"I was _good. _I could have gotten into Juliard."

Holy crap. _Juliard?_

Whatever. I didn't care. "So what?" I asked. "The lie detector test was inconclusive. But you and I know that you weren't guilty."

Edward laughed. It wasn't a real laugh. A sudden maniacal sound. I looked around the bar, happy that it was practically empty and that there weren't many people there to witness this display. "You and I. You and I know. And everyone else thinks I got you to lie for me."

"Then they don't know either of us very well, do they? I'd _never_ lie for you."

"You don't think I told them that?" He was glaring at me. Such a surplus of emotion. I shifted uncomfortably. "Can you imagine what it was like telling _my mother_ just how I knew for a fact that you of all people would never lie for me? How much you hated me? How I knew that you couldn't possibly have anything but contempt for me?"

Was he serious? Was this conversation really happening? Fuck propriety. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?" I asked, unwilling to keep the sneer from my tone. "You had to tell mommy dearest what a monster her beloved son was and I'm supposed to pity you. Go fuck yourself."

"I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me," he snapped back.

"Then what the hell do you want from me?"

"I want you to help me find Tanya's killer."

**AN: Does Edward seem like a real person?**

**Author Rec: The Blessing Ring by QuantumFizzx - After missing out on love, Bella goes thru the motions in life. Forces begin to compel her to go after the only thing she had ever truly wanted... even when that dream is farther out of reach than ever before. AH B/E**


	4. Chapter 4

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 3

'_There is salvation for the repentant man, but none for me!' – George W. M. Reynolds_

BPOV

_Last time on _Gothic,_ one Edward Cullen had just requested Ms. Swan's assistance in the search for the killer of Mr. Cullen's former girlfriend. We wait, on pins and needles, for our heroine's response._

I gaped at Edward. I could hardly believe that he meant it. "You want me to help you find Tanya's killer?" I asked stupidly, even though I had heard him clearly enough.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"It's impossible."

"If anyone can solve her murder, it should be us."

I scoffed. "Do I look like I'm in the FBI?"

"The FBI did try. And they failed."

"My point exactly," I said, though I hadn't known that the FBI had actually been involved. That must have been after my part was over. I'd never talked to an agent.

"They didn't have our perspective," Edward insisted.

"That's right. They were just well-trained agents with CSI stuff."

"CSI _stuff_?"

"Yeah." Dumbass.

"Well, all that CSI _stuff_ led them directly to me. So it didn't them any good, did it?"

I shook my head. "They would have figured it out eventually."

It was Edward's turn to scoff. "Right. They had _my_ car. _My_ hair at the crime scene. They even had an eyewitness who said she saw me pick Tanya up in Port Angeles. There was blood in my car. Tanya's blood. How did that get there?"

"You gave Tanya a ride to school every day for months. You dated. It wasn't that much blood. She could have cut her hand and touched the side of the passenger seat. Besides, your Volvo was sitting in the driveway of your house in Forks when someone picked her up in Seattle. It wasn't your car."

"And my hair at the crime scene?"

"It could have been on her jacket. The two of you had been all over each other for the last few weeks."

"They _saw_ me in Port Angeles."

I paused. "They saw someone who happened to look like you and had a car like yours. Or someone set you up."

"What kind of a serial killer sets up an eighteen year old?"

"Technically, it wasn't a serial unless there was another—"

"Bella—"

I pursed my lips at his use of that name.

He went on. "Whoever it was, they knew me. They knew Tanya. And they hated both of us."

"Case solved. It was me."

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't trying to be."

Edward gazed at me. "They could have killed any girl that day. It could have been you."

"I'm not interesting enough to serial kill."

"That's not a verb. And still not funny."

"When you've watched as many horror movies as I have, 'serial kill' becomes a verb," I explained. "Are you under the impression that I care what you think of me? I'm not your friend. I wasn't Tanya's friend. Girls get killed all the time. Why the fuck should I care?"

"Because you came forward and told the police that I couldn't have picked up Tanya in Port Angeles and killed her that day because I was sitting in a meadow sixty miles away."

Son of a—

He was right.

I paused, thinking about it. Girls did get killed all the time, and if I had a chance to do something about it and didn't, then I would have to bear the responsibility for that. Besides, it still rankled—the accusation that I had lied for Edward Cullen still followed me around. At one point, public disfavor was so strong that my father had almost lost his place on the Forks police force.

Yet there was still a minor point that required clarification. "I don't see how you think that we can solve a case that has everyone else baffled," I said.

"Because we're the only ones who know not to waste time looking at me as a suspect."

I drank the rest of my coffee and thought some more.

He started to plead his case again, "Look—"

"I'll do it," I cut him off.

Edward stared at me for a moment. "You will?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"There's nothing to thank me for. I don't expect to be helpful."

"I'm sure you will be."

I chose not to comment on that.

He cleared his throat. "So I, uh, I have all my notes and things back at my condo."

"That's why you wanted to meet there for coffee?"

Edward nodded.

"What do you mean? Notes?"

"All of the articles and some police files."

I knew enough to know that sounded suspicious. "The police released all of those files to someone they suspected in an unsolved case?"

"My friend on the Port Angeles police force—I saved his daughter's life after she was hit by a car. That's how we met."

"Was the FBI really involved?"

"Tanya's uncle was a judge. He called in a favor."

If only all dead teenage girls had uncles with favors to call in.

Something occurred to me. "Why do you care this much? I don't buy this explanation that you're plagued by suspicion. You obviously have a successful career."

"You don't know anything about me," he said, parroting my words from earlier. I supposed it was true enough.

"You do seem different," I said, and then felt awkward. Why had I said that?

"What do you mean?"

"Not yourself," I clarified, meaning that he was speaking to me like I was an actual human being. That he wasn't the many tentacled Cthulu beast of my memories.

"That's not helpful."

"See? Already I'm falling down on the job." Perhaps I could convince him to call this project off after all.

"You seem different, too."

There it was again. "I am exactly the same," I declared.

"No, you're not."

What a dick. "Whatever." My repeated use of such a term annoyed me. It was juvenile.

"I just mean that you've done very well for yourself."

What the fuck did that mean? I simply cocked an eyebrow.

"You got your Ph.D. You're a doctor," Edward explained.

"So are you."

"And Jasper says that you're very well liked at the university."

Just what was he getting at? "Well it's not Juliard. They're not very discerning."

"I'm sure it's very prestigious."

"They took Jasper." Really, that was enough to make one question everything.

"Jasper's dissertation was nominated for a national award," Edward told me, as if this was proof of Jasper's excellence.

"Hmph." The nominating committee was probably dominated by southerners.

"Look, I'm just trying to find some common ground with you," Edward argued.

"Why bother?"

"Shouldn't we try to get along?" he asked.

"Get along?" Was he insane?

"Don't you think it would help?"

His suggestion wasn't illogical, but I didn't care to make him think that I agreed. I held my tongue.

Edward changed the topic. "So I have to work tonight, but whenever you're free, and I'm off, you can come around, I'll show you what I've got."

I nodded.

"In the meantime," he looked at his wristwatch.

"Yeah, I've got to go," I lied.

"You do?" he seemed relieved.

"Mmm hmm." I reached for my wallet.

"It's on me," he stopped me.

"Are you sure?"

"It's just coffee."

I supposed that he was right, but I still didn't like the idea of owing Edward for anything. "So when are you off again?" I asked.

"This time tomorrow, but I'm going to be exhausted. What about Saturday?"

I nodded.

"What time?" he asked.

"Whenever." I probably should have specified a time. He wasn't a friend. I didn't care if he wasn't available. In fact, it would be better for me if he wasn't available and this whole business simply went away.

"Noon."

"Fine." What a fucking inane conversation.

We stared at each other blankly for a minute.

"Can I get your address?" I asked, resenting the need for my request.

"Oh yeah," he gave me his address. "And you should probably have my cell, too." He gave that to me as well. I considered not giving him my cell in return, but that would be ridiculous. I didn't give him my address. That would have been overkill.

"Saturday then," I confirmed, standing up.

"Saturday," he replied.

And I left.

Jesus fucking Christ.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

That night was the first time I dreamt of Edward Cullen. The setting was our old stomping grounds, Forks High, of course, the vicious fancy of sleep turning the unhappy images that I still recalled but dimly into a Dantesque nightmare. Dream logic had me wandering endless corridors lined with lockers and cringing away from the too well lit cafeteria—no shade left in which to hide—to the chant of grotesque serenades from the rabble crowding around, the creatures who ought to have been my peers but were instead my tormentors, demonic in my memory perhaps but even worse in my dreams, grimaces distorted into ghoulish masks. How comical the irrational—and yet how visceral the old fear once called back up from where it lay dormant so long. A carnival of mockery for which one has only herself to blame, for it ought not to matter_. It ought not to matter. It ought not to matter_. All of it too much like a staged production at the _Grand Guignol_, the florescent lights shining down on me as I lay on the lab table in my biology classroom, pinned and helpless as Jasper Hale and James What's-his-name and a faceless horde of others jeered at me while the modern day leech, physician-in-training, Edward Cullen, took his time going about his examination of my person. Something that had never actually happened but which _felt_ as if it _must_ have happened, or at least something of the like—something _physical_, something more than just their words—for how else was I to justify the sensations of despair that surrounded all of my memories of high school? Surely words alone could not have inflicted so much pain. Nevertheless, humiliation, terror and disgust were now competing for dominance in the aftermath of this macabre nightmare, a nightmare that was made all the worse by its ability to incapacitate me beyond all reason, because of course it _shouldn't_ matter, and yet it did.

The images of the dream faded quickly after I woke up, leaving an irrational but nonetheless distinct sense of dread in their wake. Like my actual memories from the years in question—the _Roiling Abyss_—the facts themselves were vague but the emotions were vivid. A different sort of torture from those first few years of undergrad—the _Mountains of Madness_—but no less fondly recalled. I'd no desire to remember any of that. Safety lay in forgetting. Lock the corpse in the dungeon and throw away the key.

Thus, I couldn't help but look upon the reappearance of JFH and EFC—Jasper Fucking Hale and Edward Fucking Cullen—with a sense of foreboding. I didn't blame them though. Not completely. How could I? There was a natural order to society. Unless one is living in some dystopian teenage novel, social distinctions will emerge.

It only made sense that I would fall to the bottom of the pecking order.

All that was done and we weren't in high school anymore. But what did that mean? We weren't friends, nor would we ever be. Alice was only living out some desperate revenge fantasy in which JFH would be forced to apologize for all the wrongs he had ever done her. If she had really changed as much as she claimed she had, of if she had really gotten over all of it, she wouldn't need his apology. I certainly didn't want it. Even if I got it—

If JFH or EFC ever tried to apologize to me, I would claw their eyes out.

I didn't, to be entirely honest, quite remember the details of all of their crimes. But I remembered the dread that their actions had engendered. It had come alive again with my dream and had filled me with a lingering nausea that morning as I showered and dressed. I stared at the oatmeal that I didn't want to eat, and felt myself wishing that I would never again have to see either one of them.

There was no way to avoid JFH. But he was a co-worker and there were rules governing that relationship. So long as he obeyed the rules of civilized conduct—_Sorry, what's that? Are you confused because my mouth is saying 'thank you for holding the door' while my face is saying 'I want to punch you in the throat'? I guess it's just my pesky struggle with your complete hypocrisy. If you really were the sort of gentleman that you go around pretending to be, you'd also pretend not to notice the discrepancy._—then we would be just fine. And if he didn't follow the rules, I would pull rank. I had been at that university longer than him. The other professors were, for the most part, introverted past-geeks like me. They wouldn't side with him. And the admin appreciated my insistence that they be treated as more than subhuman bottom-dwellers. I was the big man on campus now.

Well, sort of.

As for EFC, I would not let my dislike of him interfere with the resolution of this project. That was exactly how I would treat the investigation of Tanya's murder—as a project. I didn't expect us to be successful, but I didn't plan to put any more effort into it than what I already put into arranging happy hours or baking birthday cakes. I would do just enough to fulfill the social obligation of a person touched by tragedy.

Was that what I was? A person touched by tragedy? Tanya's death was a tragedy. I wasn't so monstrous that I couldn't recognize that. But was I really the disinterested star of a Lifetime movie? No. I didn't care enough about Tanya for that. I was the bitch in the first act who retreated to the background while the actual plot played out. I was just playing my role, lest it get around that I had been asked to help and had turned up my nose.

Not that there was really anyone for such a story to get around to. Who would care? Alice? Ha! Not unless she thought that my participation in the project would somehow aid her in her quest to get revenge on JFH, a quest that involved either destroying him or making him fall in love with her, possibly both. I wasn't clear on all of the details.

In any case, I would still play my role in this little mystery. I would do it for the _story. _I certainly didn't care what Edward Fucking Cullen thought of me.

And with this resolution in place, I opened the front door to leave, and stumbled back in horror at the sight of the dead animal on my doorstep.

**AN: Rec: Hit by Destiny. I know, I know. It hardly qualifies as a diamond in the rough because it has so many reviews. But it has the best high school torture scenes that I know of.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Meyer owns all.**

**Muchas gracias to NewTwilightFan for the rec on ADF!**

**Sorry I didn't get a chance to respond to reviews! I do appreciate them and will respond ASAP!**

Chapter 4

'_Sensuous hopes trampled upon; visionary joys despised. There is no future gladness. Destiny works. What are we more than a handful of faded leaves tossed by the early winter wind?' – R. Murray Gilchrist_

BPOV

I lived on a quiet street, further from campus than others in the faculty liked but that was the point. I preferred seclusion to convenience.

So there was no one there to see me as I used a broom to push the hideous dead thing—a squirrel?—off of my front step and to the curb. Then I put the broom in the outdoor garbage bin.

I would bury _it_ when I got home that night. _Or should I put it in the garbage? _I didn't know. Just throwing it in the garbage seemed too horrible, though I wasn't sure that I could stomach burying it. But that was cowardice, wasn't it? The smell was grotesque—I would put Vix vapor rub under my nose to block the scent. I had a shovel. I could do it.

I would just keep my eyes closed while I used the broom to push the thing into the hole. Then I would throw away the broom again.

I had no idea how _it_ had managed to get up on my step. The body looked as if it had been run over. Almost perfectly flat. Just the tail fluttering awfully in the wind.

Fortunately, it was Seattle and thus it would almost certainly rain soon. Rain would help wash away the stench.

In the meantime, I didn't think that I would be able to bear putting my foot down on the pavement where _it _had lain.

Trying to be more rational about the matter, I drove to work and decided that its appearance was a prank. The body couldn't possibly have gotten there by itself. Some bratty neighbor kid.

But why? I had amicable relations with all of my neighbors. Which is to say that I greeted them as I passed, had no loud parties, saw to it that the snow on my sidewalk was always shoveled and that my lawn was always mowed, and didn't put the garbage out too early. I firmly believed that the preservation of harmonious living arrangements was contingent upon the absence of intimate knowledge of one's neighbors. _Don't shit where you eat_, et cetera.

Besides, I didn't think that there were any teenagers living in the immediate vicinity. Pre-teens only. Perhaps I ought to stop and chat with one or two of my neighbors after all. Find out if any of them had been subjected to the same treatment—_ugh!_

A night filled with unhappy school day memories, followed by the discovery of such a charming present on my doorstep, hardly left me in the best of spirits. There was, however, a familiarity to such a mood that was almost reassuring. There is a point in life where depression is more comfortable than happiness. At least then you know that things can't get worse.

Nevertheless, I couldn't quite bring myself to eat the massive salad that I'd brought for lunch. Rather than let it go to waste, I put it out in the faculty lounge for anyone who wanted it.

"What's the occasion?" Angela asked. "Another birthday?"

In fact, my own birthday had just passed. The best perk of overseeing such celebrations in the department was ensuring that my own birthday passed without anyone's knowledge. A phone call to my father and a quiet dinner with a few friends had more than sufficed.

I shook my head. "A leafy show of mourning for the death of grammar as a subject in the American school system."

"Can't be that bad darlin', can it?" Jasper drawled. I hadn't realized that he was there.

I smiled sweetly at him and batted my eyelashes, feigning a Scarlet O'Hara accent. "With naught but the scent of decay and rotting flesh dogging me, the cursed nature of existence is now a gross mockery of what once passed for joy in my life, don't you know?"

He blinked. "Oh, sorry."

"I found a dead animal on my doorstep this morning," I explained for Angela's benefit.

She was already filling a plate with salad. "Don't care. This looks yummy and I never turn down free food."

Jasper eyed Angela dubiously, then followed suit. I considered taking the bowl of salad away before he could get any, but that would have been too obvious, so I just made a cup of tea.

"Hey, Bella," he started. _Did I tell him he could call me Bella?_ No. "Did Alice tell you that we wanted to meet up some time next week?"

"What?" I almost dropped the tin of tea in surprise.

"Yeah, Alice thought it would be fun to go to a bar next week and hang out."

There must have been some mistake. "I do not—hang out." Surely Alice would never have volunteered me for such a thing.

Angela laughed.

"Shut up," I hissed. Attempting to stem the burst of anxiety, I requested clarification. "What is the occasion?"

"Just getting to know each other better."

"I already know Alice very well."

Jasper nodded. "I thought it would be good just to get to know you better myself."

"Why?"

"Well—because we're working together. And because of Alice."

"Because of Alice?"

Jasper nodded again.

I studied him for a moment, then looked at Angela. "Angela, you'll join us of course." It was rude of him to have this conversation in front of her without extending an invitation himself. This was a well-known rule of social interaction.

She smirked and shook her head. "Can't. I'm busy all next week."

"All next week? How is that possible?"

"Wedding. We're checking out venues."

I looked back at Jasper. "I'll see if Seth or Jane and the others are free."

He straightened his spine. "Well the thing is that we kind of just wanted it to be the three of us."

"The three of us?"

"Yep."

"Like a threesome?" I was crossing serious lines by having this conversation at work, but this was becoming too much. A happy hour now and then was tolerable. But coffee and dinner and apartment visits?! And I was pretty sure that the "darlin'" Jasper had thrown at me at the beginning of this conversation constituted sexual harassment.

Jasper started choking while Angela cackled.

"I'm not interested," I said. "And I don't believe that Alice suggested to you that I was and—"

"Nnn," Jasper mumbled, holding a hand up. He coughed some more and cleared his throat. "Just the three of us getting to know each other as friends."

"Does Alice know that you want to be just friends with her?"

"No," he looked confused. "That is—"

"Have Alice tell me when," I told him, already more than a little bored with this tete-a-tete.

He nodded yet again. _Fucking puppy should cut his goddamn hair_, I thought. He looked like a golden retriever.

I checked the hallway when I left the lounge, relieved not to see anyone who might have overheard me sexually harassing the puppy.

I made it all of the way to my office before it occurred to me that Alice might object to my treatment of her _Jasper, sigh_. I decided that I didn't give a shit.

This was a lie.

By some small mercy, the dead animal was gone when I got home. I shuddered, imagining a dog carrying the corpse away for dinner.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I dreamt of Edward Cullen again. This time, we were dissecting squirrels on the lab table that we'd been forced to share in junior year biology. Dream-Cullen kept snatching up squirrel parts—kidneys, flaps of skin—and tossing them at my face, urging me to take a taste.

It would have been almost laughable, a scene from vaudeville, were it not for the malice in my lab partner's face and voice, and the sense of utter dread that both invoked in me. I was certain that I would not leave that room unscathed, Dream-Cullen's wrath taken out on me in ways that defied my dream-imagination, my eyes on the door and knowing full well that if I tried to make a run for it that I would not make it more than a foot. Terror of what would happen when he caught me kept me rooted in place as he completed his dissection, flinging the items that he removed from the squirrel in my direction. I could only cringe as the squirrel's eye and then its tongue struck my cheek, a piece of brain landing in my hair.

Waking up with the imagined scent of rancid flesh still stinging my nostrils, I curled into a fetal position and pulled the covers over my head, trying to put the images from my dream out of my head.

I knew, of course, the lurid psychoanalytical explanations for the nature of my dream. It was entirely explicable and more than a little boring, a realization that only marginally helped dispel the lingering sense of revulsion that it continued to summon. I had decided to become a vegetarian at the age of fourteen because it wasn't enough that I was already a social outcast, as part of a whole self-loathing dietary concern slash effort to bring down corporate America and its attempts to produce fleshy new members of the proletariat addicted to mass-produced chemically engineered flesh. Even if I didn't go around lecturing anyone on their diet (I knew better than to do that), my questions about the ingredients in a sauce and my demonstrated preference for side items rather than the main entrée were more than enough to alienate most if not the whole population of Forks, which, if my own father's own opinion on the topic was to be believed, was the _Hunting Capital of the World_. My father, too, struggled with my decision and I had caught him more than once trying to sneak meat into my food. _I forgot, _he'd say. Funny how he'd lecture me at least twice a week about needing to eat meat and then accidentally _forget_ about my determination not to do so. Fourteen years later, I occasionally came across people who still took it as a personal affront that I didn't eat meat. _Didn't I know, _they would ask, _that restaurants use the same grill, so you are eating meat anyway, and that there is meat in the rubber of your sneakers and that if you were ever stuck in a plane crash in the Andes you'd end up eating your fellow passengers to avoid starvation_. It made me wonder why they didn't just start gnawing on my arm right then and there if they had such certainty about the inevitability of cannibalism. But I said nothing. My indifference for others was more than enough to prevent me from engaging in disputations. There were rules and I followed them.

Which was why, lying in bed that morning, sick with the phantom sensations from my dream, I felt my hands curling into fists, a surge of anger washing over me. This wasn't about my peculiar eating habits. This was about the way that Edward had treated me in high school.

Whichever explanation one preferred, however, I wasn't the kind of person to become upset over things like that anymore. I didn't have a persecution complex. I didn't give a shit what other people thought of me.

The old me had cared, though. I remembered that much. Oh, she had cared. She had let them hurt her and she had burned and hated, even if she never had said a word out loud. She was angry and no one liked her. She followed no rules.

So maybe Alice was right. We had changed. And my dream showed that I was in danger of regressing.

I wouldn't let that happen.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Hello," I smiled at Edward Cullen—having mentally reverted to his full name in my head in an effort to distance myself, and realizing with some annoyance that I would have to take care to think of his as simply _Edward_, first name only, to feign intimacy—as he opened the door of his apartment. Or condo. I had never understood the difference between those two. Preference for the latter term just seemed like bullshit elitism to me. "Am I early?" I was exactly on time, having waited downstairs twenty minutes to be sure of it before pressing the buzzer for him to let me up. But a query as to the appropriateness of one's punctuality fills the time and suggests that you care.

"Just on time," he smiled back, looking pleasantly surprised by my show of friendliness.

"I've brought a spice cake," I said, proffering the foil covered plate.

"Oookay," Edward replied, showing me inside.

"I suppose it's not your usual Murder Club fare, but I don't smoke, so I thought, what the hell?"

"Smoke?"

"A meerschaum pipe. You know, like Sherlock. And I don't have one of those hats with the floppy ears, either. Though they're very popular with the young people so I could probably get one, though it probably wouldn't be authentic."

Edward shook his head. "I guess not." There was a pause before he waved a hand in a sweeping motion. "So there's the living room. Make yourself comfortable."

I glanced at the walls, a very homey cream, with ridiculous hunting paintings of hounds and horses, the horsemen all done up in English riding costumes. I nearly guffawed, ready to mock Edward's choice in art, when I spied the portraits. Somber, proper depictions, but others that were less staid, all of them circa-American Revolution and not unlike the work of John Copley, Thomas Gainsborough, Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun and Joshua Reynolds, though of course I wasn't learned enough to identify any of the artists for certain and had no desire to seem as if I admired anything belonging to Edward. If the portraits were a trifle more whimsical than I would have expected—suggestive of a spirit which I could have endorsed—and the kind of thing that I wouldn't have minded owning myself, that was all the more reason to resent that someone like Edward would have them hanging on his walls.

_Tacky,_ I said to myself. _Who hangs up shit like that?_

_Isabella Swan would_, I couldn't help but admit a beat later, _if she could get away with it._ Instead my walls were covered with Giovanni Piranesi, Caspar Friedrich, Edward Burne-Jones, Aubrey Beardsley, and of course Henry Fuseli. Cheap prints, too, all of which I'd purchased from or else photocopied in color from library books. Not fancy reproductions like Edward had, full-sized and on canvas, with daubs of real paint.

The living room was even worse: Edward had a fucking fire place with a metal grate and iron tongs. And that's when I realized the difference between a condo and an apartment.

I reminded myself that he was a fascist capitalist and seated myself on the settee. The plush, black and red stripes of the upholstery and the faux cherry woodwork nicely coordinated with the rich burgundy of the thick carpet. "This is a fantastic reproduction," I said primly, patting the settee and happy to show that I was capable of complimenting someone I hated.

"It's an original."

"Oh." _Fuck my life. _I started to put the plate down on the marble-topped mahogany Rococo coffee table and froze.

"Go ahead. It's fine," Edward said.

"I'd rather not," I smiled and set the plate down on my lap, eyeing the intricate scrollwork of the coffee table's legs. It probably wasn't even called a coffee table. It probably had a tremendous French name that all my reading of Victorian literature had somehow failed to communicate.

Edward dropped several binders down on the table, then reached into my lap for the dish, his sudden proximity surprising me, and he set the plate down on a corner of the table. He pulled a leather wingback chair up on the other side of the pseudo-coffee table—_a _leather_ armchair, and note my animal-loving self saying nothing about it—_and sat down.

"So this is it," he explained. "And that," he cocked his head to the side and I glanced over, my eyes bugging out at the sight of a cork board, at least six feet by six feet, covered in pictures.

"Is this for real?" I asked, my tone much more serious than my previous pretense at joviality had allowed.

"Yes."

"This is—" I didn't want to say it. Even to someone I didn't like. It would be so—so cruel. And that wasn't me. That was never me. I scheduled happy hours and baked birthday cakes so that people never felt like they were forgotten. I observed the rules of social interaction to ease anxiety and preserve the illusion of civilized community. Whenever there was an awkward pause in a conversation or at a social gathering, I did and/or said something to fill it, and usually the thing that I did or said was awkward, so that the people observing me could say to themselves _at least I'm not her_ and feel a boost of self-esteem_. _Conversation would then resume, usually about whatever awkward thing I had just did or said. I didn't mind. That was a social function that I could easily perform. I could be weird. Cruelty was for the Edward Cullens and Jasper Hales of the world.

"Crazy?" he supplied. "I know."

I studied him. The wearied expression. The bags under his eyes that didn't quite mar what I knew others would think of as good looks. He looked so _sad_. Just like I'd always imagined Maxim de Winter looking—sad good looks that would make one not care what Maxim had done to his first wife. I didn't like it. I had no interest in feeling sympathy for the asshole who'd had a starring role in making high school hell.

I pursed my lips.

"You can say it," Edward said.

I shook my head.

"It's not like I haven't heard it before," he told me.

_You _are_ crazy,_ I thought, but didn't say out loud. Instead, I pulled a pencil and a pad of paper out of the messenger bag I'd brought along with me—showing that I'd come prepared—and opened the first binder. It contained a timeline of all of the events associated with the death of Tanya Denali.

Edward stopped me. "Maybe you should write up your own timeline first," he said. "Not let yourself be tainted by what I've already got."

I was confused. "My own timeline?"

"Just what you remember about that time. I've got stuff going back months, but you could just do the days immediately preceding everything."

"I don't understand. Why?"

"You might remember something that no one else has."

"I don't think so."

"Try it. Will you?"

I shrugged and sat back with my pad of paper. "Okay."

Edward jumped up. "I forgot to offer you something to drink. Do you want anything?"

"No, that's alright."

"Not even coffee? To go with your cake?"

Coffee _would _be good with my cake, and the rules called for the acceptance of amenities as a demonstration of good faith. Even if one would rather drink poison. "Sounds good."

"How do you like your coffee?"

"Um, do you have soy?" I asked absently, then continued very quickly: "Whatever you have is fine, just some kind of cream and sugar." But I messed it up again: "_Real_ sugar. Not sugar free."

I couldn't help cringing at my behavior. Surely, one didn't make demands of a person before whom one was attempting to feign indifference despite the presence of an innate suspicion born of years of torment at said person's hands.

"I have real sugar and almond milk," he said.

"I love almond—I mean that's fine. Thanks." Jesus fucking Christ. I started on my timeline.

Edward came back a few minutes later with a tray—a fucking gorgeous black tray made of a wood that was probably ebony, with even more of that Rococo-looking scrollwork, that was so pretty that I wanted to lick it even though it was probably two hundred years old—loaded down with two cups and plates and silverware. At least the dishware looked relatively recent and not too expensive. Which was just as well. I wasn't one of those people who thought that a chamber pot made a really good serving dish if you washed it enough times.

Edward pulled the foil off of the cake and cut two pieces, spilling crumbs on the carpet, I noticed as I watched out of the corner of my eye, watching not because I cared if he made more work for the maid that I was sure that he had but because I didn't know what to write. He set the pieces down on the plates and put one down in front of me and took one for himself. I kept my head down, studying the list that I was trying to write out, refusing to watch him as he tasted the cake I'd baked from scratch. Because I was a fucking good spice cake baker, everyone said so, and I didn't give a fuck if he agreed.

"Mmm, this is really fucking good," Edward hummed.

I could feel myself blushing. _Goddamn it_. What did I care if he liked my cake? Everyone liked my cake. He was just acknowledging an already accepted truth. Not that I would have expected anything half so rational from the boy—the man—who'd I known ten years ago.

I was seriously losing my shit. So what if he had an apartment—a _condominium_—straight out of an eighteenth century wet dream? I _taught_ the eighteenth century.

And sometimes dreamt of living it.

"Like I said," I reminded him, because I needed to break the train of thought that I was currently on. "I don't think I've really got anything to add." I handed him my pad.

_Sometime after lunch, I drove to the west end pass of the park, leaving my car in the last turn off and started to hike in._

_A few hours later, I saw Edward in the meadow at end of the blue trail. I waited a few minutes, thinking that he was going to leave, but he stayed. I double-backed and went up the white trail, and sat on the rocks overlooking the bluff for about an hour._

_Around the same time, an eye witness saw someone picking Tanya up in front of a restaurant in Port Angeles in a car _

_I came back and checked the meadow. Edward was still there. I hiked back to my truck. It was after nine o'clock and already dark by the time I made it to the turn off where I'd parked._

_Tanya was found._

"You're sure this is right?" he asked me.

"Except for Tanya getting in the car and being found, yeah. They made me write it out a couple of times."

"How do you know that you were sitting on the bluff for an hour?"

"I was trying to give you time to leave. It was at least an hour."

He thought for a moment. "You didn't write down anything that happened before that morning."

"What would I write?"

"Anything strange that you noticed."

"Like what?"

"New people in town. Gossip."

"Who would I gossip with? Alice? The less we knew about all of you, the better. The only thing she gossiped about was designers. Fashion designers and the latest trends."

"What about new people in town?" Edward asked.

"Whoever did this knew you. The killer wasn't some newcomer."

"He might have known me from Port Angeles. We went there sometimes to party. He could have come to Forks looking for information."

"Information?"

"Like where Tanya was going to be and when. Or where I was going to be."

"I don't remember anything like that. I don't think I would have noticed."

"You wouldn't notice someone new in town going around asking a lot of questions?" he was becoming agitated.

"Edward, if someone was going around asking questions about the two of you, don't you think someone would have told the police afterwards? And no, I wouldn't have noticed. I am not—what do you call them?—I'm not a _people watcher_."

"Everyone watches people."

"Not me."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't give a fuck about what other people are doing." I picked up my fork and took a bite of the cake. It _was_ fucking delicious.

"Fine," he huffed. "I guess it doesn't matter. You can look at the other timeline."

I reopened the binder, since he'd closed it to preserve my memory intact, and started to read. It was pretty detailed. Down to hours and minutes.

Some of it just looked like overkill. He had Tanya's birthday party six months before the day she died. I ignored that.

There was some stuff I didn't know about though. Like Edward breaking up with Tanya two days before she died because he'd caught her cheating with Mike Newton.

I had seen that coming.

Part of me wanted to ask Edward if he could have really been all that surprised by her cheating. Another part of me wanted to ask him if he really was capable of caring about something like that, but there were rules. I held my tongue. Several pages of the binder were taken up by maps and trail routes. I only glanced at them.

The pertinent facts, as I saw them, were:

_2 pm Tanya drives to Port Angeles with her sisters, Irina and Kate, to go shopping. _

_2 pm Edward has a fight with his parents as the latter are leaving for the weekend. His parents drive away in their car. Edward immediately exits out of the back of his house, heading for a trail that meets up with the edge of his parent's property and leads up into the national park. He makes a nineteen mile hike to the top of the blue trail and spends the afternoon in the meadow. _

_4 pm Tanya leaves her sisters in a coffee shop, telling them that she's going to run back to a store to purchase a pair of shoes she'd changed her mind about buying. She never makes it to the shoe store._

_4:15 pm Tanya is seen by a waitress getting into a silver Volvo in front of _Bella Italia_. The driver has short red hair. _

_4:15 – approximately 5 pm, a person or persons unknown drive(s) Tanya to a cabin in the outskirts of Port Angeles. Tanya enters the cabin of her own volition or is carried in. Blows delivered to Tanya's head prior to her death were sufficient to render victim unconscious and are consistent with being struck several times by the driver of car while she was seated in the passenger seat._

_Approximately 5 pm, a person or persons unknown make(s) several incisions in the creases behind Tanya's elbows and knees, as well as the neck and inner thigh, all at points where significant blood loss could be expected._

_Approximately 5:15 pm Tanya expires._

_6:30 pm police respond to an anonymous phone call originating from a pay phone in Forks to find Tanya deceased._

_9:07 pm sunset._

_It's already dark by the time Edward makes it home._

I redirected Edward's own question towards himself. "How sure are you about this?"

"There's a record for the phone call from Tanya to her father when she was leaving for Port Angeles. And a receipt for the coffee house. My parents had a receipt for the gas station when they left and thank God there was some reporter filming a bit on highway repaving to prove that they really did go. They checked into their hotel in Seattle three hours later so no one could challenge that either. The part about when she died is speculation, of course, but they've got that stuff down pretty good these days. And obviously the police know when they got the phone call and when they found her. The phone isn't even there anymore. It was behind _The Lodge_. No camera. No prints. No one saw anyone using it. And I have no idea who decided when sunset was, but I don't think they could have screwed that one up."

"Nineteen miles to the meadow and back. You ran track and field."

"It took me three hours each way, easy. I was hiking, not running, and even so I was out of breath. It's not an easy trail. You didn't come the same way I did. You parked at the turn off."

"But still—"

"Tanya's father got some guy who came in first place in the state for cross country the year before we graduated to run it. He got six hours and fifteen minutes round trip. And that was without an hour sitting in the middle of a fucking field twiddling his thumbs." Edward was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hair tangled in his fists.

I waited a beat. "Maybe someone gave you a ride."

His eyes flashed to mine. "No one gave me a fucking ride. They questioned everyone who went through the toll booth that day. No one hid me in their trunk."

"Maybe you drove yourself."

"I would have had to go through the fucking toll booth myself. There would have been a record."

"Maybe you used a mountain bike."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Did you?"

He sat up. "A mountain bike would have only helped part of the way. It would have been impossible to use one across the entire trail."

"So you used it when it was convenient and hid it behind some brush."

"What then? I took a mountain bike, which I don't own and never have owned, part way up a fucking mountain. Hid it behind a tree. Went up the rest of the way on foot. Sat in a meadow waiting for a girl that I didn't know was going to show up, so that she could see me sitting there and give me an alibi, then I went back, got on the bike, road the rest of the way home, got in my car, drove to Port Angeles, killed Tanya and then came home again? Oh, and at some point, I got rid of the bike so that no one would know that I'd used it."

"Maybe it was spur of the moment. You didn't expect me to be there to see you but you also didn't plan to go kill Tanya."  
"The police found her at 6:30. It's eight miles over easy terrain from the meadow to the turn off. I don't care how out of shape you were or how many times you stopped to gawk at a fern, there is no way that you took such a long time to get back to your truck that I would have had time to get to Port Angeles and back, even with a mountain bike, after you saw me in that meadow. It takes at least an hour to drive to Port Angeles from Forks even if you're speeding."

"Eight miles. Say it took me three hours. That's with time for huffing and puffing over easy terrain and gawking at ferns. It was after nine by the time that I made it back to my truck. I remember because I couldn't see. I had to use my hands to feel for the lock. It gets dark in the woods there fast. So I saw you at six at the latest, and again, an hour previously, around five, which was when she was killed. Your alibi is still good even if I was faster. It would have taken me an hour and a half at least. That's 7:30 and 6:30. You couldn't have made the call, and I don't think you could have killed her either."

"Sure about that?" Edward snapped.

I nodded.

"Much obliged."

"No problem." I waved a hand dismissively. "So who hated Tanya enough to kill her and hated you enough to set you up for her murder?"

**AN: Are you getting the gist of the murder? Or is it still too vague? Would you have preferred that the contents of the list be communicated via discussion? And did I overreach with that whole thing about the dead squirrel dream as an expression of repressed vegetarian/outcast rage overreaction, followed by guilt over feeling rage, followed by resentment over feeling guilt for feeling rage?**

**Rec: Resurfacing by NewTwilightFan – I love a cold-hearted, distant Bella!**

**Oldie: It's an Alice story - **In the Days of Auld Lang Syne: Fix You by Feisty Y. Beden


	6. Chapter 6

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 5

'_When once sordid interest seizes upon the heart, it freezes up the source of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue and to taste—_this_ it perverts and _that_ it annihilates.' – Ann Radcliffe_

BPOV

_Last time, on _Gothic_: Our heroine, Bella Swan, graciously consented to accept the invitation to a tete-a-tete at the luxury condominium of one Edward Cullen, where she and her host proceeded to discuss that most stimulating of subjects, Murder Most Foul. _

"I made a list of everyone that I thought might have had a grudge against us," Edward said.

"Don't you think that the police already looked into them?" I asked.

"We should still go over them. In case there's something they missed."

"Fine."

He pushed another binder towards me.

I opened to a list labeled as _Suspects._

"Are you sure that I didn't do it?" I inquired before I started reading.

"Why would you have given me an alibi if you had?"

"To make you beholden to me. To make you _my slave_." I wasn't saying anything that I hadn't already been accused of doing.

"I might not have seen you that day in the woods, but you saw me, or someone working with you did. There's no way that you could have known that I would be in that meadow at that point. Not even _I _knew that I was going to be there before I sat down."

Not replying, I started reading the list. "This is a joke," I laughed, studying the first name.

"What?"

"Eric?"

"He keyed my car."

"Was that before or after you spent years tormenting him? He may have keyed your car but he didn't set you up for murder."

"He might have."

"And I'm sure you would have deserved it."

"Tanya didn't."

I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. Yes, I had agreed to try to solve Tanya's murder. But I hadn't agreed to start liking her, and I was hardly going to become all weepy-eyed over a bitch who had been in the ground for ten years.

She might not have deserved it, but I wasn't prone to sentiment.

"Who're these guys?" I asked of the next two names on the list, a Felix Manning and Demetri Giampetroni.

"Felix was sleeping with Tanya. At least, I think he was. And Demetri is the brother of that waitress in Port Angeles who saw Tanya get into a car that looked just like mine."

I had started flipping through the rest of the notebook.

"Holy shit, you've been stalking them."

"I haven't been stalking them."

"You've got pictures of one of them at a fucking gas station with a date on it from a year ago. That's stalking." The pictures weren't even the half of it. Edward had lists of all of the places they'd worked, everywhere they'd lived, the names of known associates, and lists of all of the crimes reported in their vicinity for the last ten years. It was a little disturbing, to say the least.

"I didn't take those pictures myself. My PI did. It's not stalking if you get someone else to do it for you."

I wasn't sure that was true, but I decided not to push it. "Why them?"

"Felix was a mechanic at the place where Tanya's father took his cars. I saw Tanya hanging around the place once or twice. She always said that she was just there for an oil change and Felix was showing her how to do it herself."

I couldn't help laughing.

Edward saw the humor as well. "Exactly. Tanya, on the ground changing her oil? I think not. Why the hell would a thirty year old mechanic hang around with an eighteen year old girl? It's fucking creepy."

I decided not to point out that stalking was pretty fucking creepy itself. "And this other guy?"

"Well, that waitress' story was clearly bullshit, because I wasn't in Port Angeles picking Tanya up. So she was covering for someone. Who better than her own brother? He was arrested just a month after Tanya died for beating up his girlfriend. He's had more arrests since them, but he's only gotten actual time once, because the women involved almost always refuse to press charges against him."  
"So you've been stalking them for ten years because you think they did it?"

Edward sat back in his seat. "Someone killed Tanya. It wasn't me. So who the fuck was it? If the police had just done their job, Tanya's killer would be behind bars now. Do you know that they didn't even question Felix? And they never bothered checking up on the waitress. You would think that they would have been just a little suspicious about their own star witness."

He had a point, though I wasn't convinced that it justified going all Jake Gyllenhall from _Zodiac_. I closed the notebook and folded my arms. "This is no good," I concluded.

"Why not?"

"You're ignoring all of the real suspects."

"Like who?"

"Jasper Hale. James What's his name. Or that dick Newton. And his slut girlfriend. Or that other whore. The one with the hair."

"Jasper was in another state. Everyone else was at a party on First Beach when Tanya was killed."

"Why weren't you at the party?"

"I'd just caught Tanya cheating, remember?"

I stared at him blankly. "I wasn't exactly on anyone's _Vapid Gossip _speed dial."

He continued. "We were going away to college in the fall. I didn't want to deal with that juvenile shit anymore. We were supposed to be adults. Besides, I'd had a fight with my parents and just needed a break from everything for a while. Why weren't _you_ at First Beach?"

"You're kidding me right?" I waited for the punch line. None came, so I said, "I guess my invitation got lost in the mail."  
"Well everyone else was at First Beach that day. The entire class as well as the one before us and the one after, _and_ the kids from the res. They all gave each other alibis."

"Even Eric?"

Edward glared down at his list of suspects. "Yes, even Eric. But I'm not sure that I trust the testimony of drunken teenagers."

"But you're willing to trust that drunken testimony when it comes to your friends?"

"You can't be serious," Edward shook his head.

"I am absolutely serious. I think it makes perfect sense that it was an inside job by one of the—" I struggled for an appropriate term for the crowd of ravenous fiends who had made my youth a living fucking nightmare, for surely the term _friend_ implied a level of compassion of which they were utterly incapable, "—by one of your _people._" I ticked the reasons off on my fingers. "First, you were all back-stabbing bitches. Second, it was someone who knew you well enough to pull this off. Third, it was someone who could get a silver Volvo and get rid of it without anyone knowing. Either renting it out of state or borrowing it from someone who wouldn't run his mouth. So it wasn't Dollar Store Eric or someone from La Push. And that's just keeping the list down to people our age, like this is _Buffy _seasons 1 and 2. You've got to go season 3. Like, the mayor."

"Forks doesn't have a mayor. And why would someone that important have a grudge against me?"

"Maybe it was a grudge against Tanya's parents."

"Tanya's mother died before any of this happened. Her father won't talk to me."

"Your parents then."

Edward snorted. "I can't talk to them about this."

"You can't ask your own parents why someone set you up for murder?"

Edward stared at the binders sitting on the pseudo-coffee table. "They don't want anything to do with this. They think that I've got to put it behind me."

"That's fucked up. Your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—died and people blamed you. How are you supposed to just put that behind you?"

He snorted. "That's what I said."

I turned to a new page in my pad. "So let's make a list of things to check on."

"Don't you want to finish going through the binders?"

I flipped open the cover of the last one. It was a fucking morgue photo. I closed it again. "No."

"There's more in there. About possible serials and whatnot. There were only drunken disorderlies in Port Angeles at the time, and some guy got killed in Seattle by his ex-wife, but if we cast a wider net, there were a couple of other suspicious events. One or two crimes that even seemed ritualistic."

I didn't like the sound of _ritualistic_. "We've already decided that it couldn't have been a random serial killer. Not with a silver Volvo and short red hair. That would be pushing credibility just a bit too far."

"Maybe you should look just to be sure."

"Is there anything about cannibalism in there?"

"No."

"I'm a vegetarian."

"Okay."

"I mean it. I will throw up on your fancy rug if there is any cannibalism in that notebook. I don't care if you think I'm full of shit and that I'd eat a plane-full of fellow travelers if I was ever stranded in the Andes. I've never even seen any of the _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_s. And I _love_ horror."

"There's no cannibalism."

"Fine." I flipped the notebook open again, and quickly went past the morgue photo, holding it by the edges to turn the page, which was completely ridiculous because it was just a picture, but I couldn't help but feel like it had the power to somehow leech through my pores. _Miasma_. Which made me feel like a bitch because Tanya was dead and it was supposed to be sad.

There were crime scene photos too. I didn't want to look at that either.

I sat up. "Can't you just be in charge of this part?" I gestured to the picture in front of me, showing what looked like the blood-drenched floor of a shack. "I can be in charge of something else. Like feeding us. I'll even get meat for you. I'll have someone else prepare it because I don't believe in feeding someone something that I wouldn't taste for myself, but I could be in charge of that. Or translation. Like if there's any Latin or French to translate. I can read many languages. I even took a semester of Hebrew. I don't remember any of it. But I'm sure that there's something else that I could do to be of help."

He looked at me with an expression that I supposed was meant to be sympathetic, but that emotion didn't make sense coming from him so it just annoyed me. "Do the pictures really bother you that much? I guess that I've just gotten used to them. I don't even think about—I don't even really think about them as _her_ any more. I suppose it helps that I'm a doctor. You wouldn't mind seeing it in person, would you? I was hoping that you would come out to the cabin with me."

I felt my jaw fall open. "After ten years?" I finally managed to ask. "What the hell would we see?"

Edward shrugged. "I don't know. I've gone before. It's not dangerous or anything."

"Not _dangerous_? Like the Devils' Rejects aren't going to come at us with knives from behind some trees?" I paused, realizing that I needed to convey to him the full gravity of the situation. "I am a fan of Rob Zombie's oeuvre, both musical and cinematic. I even like his remake of _Halloween._ I have absorbed his teachings. Lesson One: I don't ask for directions. Ever. And I don't have a GPS. I get lost all of the time. I joke that if I haven't made at least one u-turn on the way to somewhere, that I never went. It is a life's goal of mine never to be directed to a shack in the middle of nowhere inhabited by a serial killer who wants to have fun with my parts. Lesson Two: I don't go to shacks in the middle of nowhere on purpose, either."

He cough-laughed at me, the effort to hide his reaction suggesting that laughter wasn't something he was used to. Not that he should be. Not about this. Or maybe he just wasn't comfortable around the likes of me.

"So _you_ think it's funny now?" I asked.

Edward sobered. "Sorry. Look, I think you'll be fine. It's just a cabin. You used to like the woods. You liked hiking."

I didn't say anything. I didn't like this. I didn't like any of this.

I pulled out my pad again. "As I was saying, things we ought to look into: One, grudges people might have had against your parents and the Denalis. Two," I gritted my teeth, "cabin in the woods." I stopped. "You do know that's the name of a fucking horror movie right? _Cabin in the Woods._"

He cough-laughed again.

"I'm not getting eaten," I warned him.

He nodded.

I reconsidered. "Well I don't care if I get eaten but I'm not eating anyone else. You have to kill me before they make me eat someone." He wasn't taking this seriously. I wasn't joking. "_I mean it!_"

"Alright, alright." He was outright laughing. "I can't believe I'm reacting like this. It isn't funny."

He kept saying that—that it wasn't funny—but the Edward Cullen I remembered from the _Roiling Abyss_ used to laugh _at_ me all of the time. He used to enjoy watching others suffer. "What else?" I asked.

"That witness in Port Angeles. The waitress who saw Tanya get into that car. It was just too convenient that she happened to see a car that looked just like mine. I had my PI look into her, though, and he couldn't find any proof that she'd been bribed."

"Bribed?"

"How else do you explain her claiming to see me driving my car when I was sixty miles away? Unless she was covering for her brother."

"Do you want to question her?"

"I already have. She threatened to have me arrested if she ever saw me again."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Can you question her?"

I didn't think that would work. I was hardly the type of person who could manipulate a person into confessing that she'd been mistaken or had willingly lied. "Why me?"

"I can't talk to her again."

_Bella Swan, Interrogator_ seemed like a non-starter to me, but I added it to the list. "What about the car?" I asked. "Is there something we can do about that?"

"I hired a private investigator to look into rentals in the state. There weren't any around that time."

"What about our new list of suspects?"

He laughed again. "Jasper? Why not Alice?"

"She was in Mississippi with her cousins." I sighed. "Alright fine. Not Jasper. Though I would like to know how tight his alibi really is. But the rest of them. We ought to do something about them too. Don't you have Facebook or Myspace or something? A way to keep up with all of your besties?"

"I don't have a Myspace account. And Jasper is the only friend from high school that I keep up with. I can ask Jasper if he's kept in touch with anyone. Worst case scenario, I'll use the PI again."

"Won't that be expensive?"

"It doesn't matter."

To him maybe. Adjunct professors aren't exactly rolling in it.

"Besides," he shrugged. "I still think it was Eric. Or one of those other fuckers." He pointed at the _Suspect Notebook._ "What we really need to do is to figure out how to break their alibis."

If their alibis could be broken, wouldn't he have gone to the police about with their names already?

_Speaking of alibis_. "Wait," I said. "It was so dark when I got to my truck that night that I couldn't see the lock, but it takes a while to get that dark after sunset. I'm sure it won't make a difference to the timeline or else the cops would have caught it. But how long does it take to get dark take in July?"

"It gets dark pretty fast in the woods, doesn't it? With the trees and the mountains?"

"I suppose so. It probably depends on the weather too. It was cloudy that day. I kept thinking it was going to rain. We can check how fast it normally gets dark after sunset. It's not the right season now, but I can ask the guys in La Push. They'll probably have an idea."

"The guys in La Push?" Edward asked, sounding oddly defensive.

"What's wrong with them?" I didn't like his tone.

"They don't really like me." He crossed his arms.

"I'm not surprised," I mumbled under my breath.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't mean anything." I hadn't meant for him to hear me.

"Bullshit."

He was really going to call me out? He was becoming belligerent, I decided. Probably misdirected guilt for laughing earlier. Had he ever felt guilty for laughing at me back in high school? No.

I said, "You were an asshole back then." And probably still were. "I'm not surprised that they didn't like you." I actually had had friends down in La Push when I was in high school. Okay, maybe not friends. But I had hung out there sometimes when Charlie would visit Billy. Emily was nice. Leah was a bitch and Paul was an obnoxious dick.

"I'm the asshole? Do you know what they used to say when I would show up at First Beach? _Here comes the white man to claim the ocean._"

"Well white guys kind of did take everything." I thought Edward was overreacting. "And maybe they thought that you were there looking for that pirate gold everyone's always going on about."

"You're white too, and there is no pirate gold."

"I'll have you know that I am eight percent Cherokee," I snapped. I conceded the pirate gold point but didn't see the value of saying so out loud.

"You don't look it."

"At least I don't glow in the dark." _Take that_, I thought, remembering all the times in high school that I'd had to listen to skanks wax lyrical about the so-called Greek god. I had been fairly nice to Edward all that afternoon. But enough was enough.

His eyebrows nearly joined his hairline. "_Glow_ in the dark?"

"You do don't you?" I pictured that Greco-Roman statue of a dying Gaul, the stone a sickly white.

"I have a proud Celtic heritage—"

"And you glow in the dark. That's probably why your people lost to the Romans. And to the English. Fucked up all of your nighttime raids."

"The Cherokee didn't exactly win either."

I threw down my pencil. "You really want to go there?"

"You started it."

"I started it?" I repeated, flabbergast. "What the fuck do you think high school was?"

"Oh, so now we come down to it. We finally come to the truth. You're holding a grudge against me."

"I don't give a fuck."

"Oh, you give a fuck."

"You're not important enough for me to care about."

"Then why the hell are you so angry?"

I huffed. "I'm not angry. You're just an asshole. You're still an asshole. If I'm angry," I ventured, possibly contradicting myself, "it's because of the asshole that you are being _now_, not the one you were _then_."

"How am I being an asshole now? What have I done to you since we met back up that could possibly have offended you?"

"You—you're racist. And you're a doctor. I don't like doctors. _And you're rich_."

"If I'm racist, you're racist. You're a self-hating mostly Caucasian. And doctors help people. Unlike teachers, who brainwash their students. And you're a classist."

"I don't brainwash my students. I let them make up their own minds. Unless you think that the promotion of critical thinking is in and of itself antithetical to the right wing agenda, which is the same as admitting that Republicans just want to keep people too stupid to know what the government is doing. Just like the Europeans using treaties written in languages that the First Nations People didn't understand. Boundary lines don't mean shit to nomads. And _classist_? What the fuck is that?"

"You hate rich people."

"Well maybe I do."

"You don't think there's anything wrong with that?"

"There _isn't_ anything wrong with that. They're in charge of the world and the world's fucked up, so it must be their fault. Besides, it's not like I'm doing them any harm."

"I'll have you know that my family and I give substantial contributions to charity every year."

"And I'm sure that's not for the fancy tax write-off."

"You're ridiculous. You have me defending positions that I don't even support. I'm not rich."

"Ha!" I held up the ebony tray that I wanted to lick. "What the hell is this?"

"That's my mothers."

Momma's boy. "Yet it just so happens to be sitting in your apartment. And it's called an _apartment_. Calling it a condominium doesn't make you better than other people."

"I never said that I was better than other people."

"My God—what was high school? Of course you thought you were better than other people, and you made sure that everyone else knew it."

"So this _is_ about high school."

"Ugh!" I threw my hands up and screamed. "I can't stand being around you."

"Then get out."

"You get out. My people want their land back."

"You're only eight percent."

"It's called genocide, jerk."

"My family didn't migrate to the U.S. until 1910. We didn't push anyone out."

"Well isn't it convenient that all of the natives had already been cleared out for you?"

"You're fucking crazy."

"I'm not the one with a cork board covered with pictures of a dead girl."

**AN: Another old rec: (warning – I not only cried, I wanted to hunt Edward down at one point, and it wasn't to give him a round of applause) ****These Dreams**** By: ****moxieandmirth**** A violent attack senior year leaves Bella ready to leave Forks behind &amp; start a new life in L.A. She begins to heal &amp; finds a friend in her new boss, but when Love comes knocking at her door Bella finds herself too haunted by the past to answer. AH/BxE**


	7. Chapter 7

**Meyer owns all.**

**Bribe added at bottom.**

Chapter 6

'_To terror succeeded a languor and lassitude not without charm—passivity, acquiescence, indulgence—he felt, as it were, the strong caress of another will flowing over him like water and clothing him with invisible hands in an impalpable garment.' – Count Stenbock_

BPOV

_Last time on _Gothic_, our heroes were engaging in one of those verbal contests that are so stimulating to the senses. If they were behaving with less decorum than one expects to find in polite society, that is perhaps to be expected of the modern generation, amongst whom there is such disregard for proper manners. Yet even our heroine might be willing to admit that she went perhaps a little too far when she implied that a man who keeps a cork board covered with pictures of a dead girl is, in point of fact, fucking crazy._

Forgiveness may be asked with regards to an unintended faux pas, so long as the breech has not been too serious or the price of admitting the breech too high.

Perhaps I ought not to have inferred that Edward Cullen was insane just because he had a six foot by six foot cork board covered with pictures of a dead girl. After all, such a collection has a role in habituating the viewer to the grotesque. Without habituation, how could anyone expect to face such a horrific thing rationally?

Besides, there were other pictures on the cork board. Photographs of a cabin in the woods, a pay phone behind a restaurant and a silver Volvo. Yearbook photos too. Almost our entire graduating class and some juniors and the preceding class as well.

I apologized for implying that I thought that Edward was crazy, which was probably hypocritical. Logically speaking, he couldn't really have been operating on all cylinders, could he? I thought back to my days of armchair psychoanalysis during my undergraduate fling with the _Mountains of Madness_. His behavior suggested obsessive compulsion, at the very least.

He accepted my apology.

The silence following our reconciliation was awkward. I said that I had to be going, which was true. He complimented me again for my cake and asked me when I would be available to drive to Port Angeles.

The reference to a road trip surprised me, though I should have expected it. I told him that we could go the following weekend, if he was free.

He said that it was difficult to get an entire weekend off. I told him my teaching schedule and he suggested that we leave on a Thursday night and come back Saturday. I said that would be fine.

It was only after I left that I registered the humming. My entire body was humming, from my fingertips, along my arms and down my spine. I felt almost dizzy. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if it was the exhilaration of having someone who could give it back just as good as I gave it without getting his feelings hurt—though I supposed that his feelings had been hurt in the end, unless that was just me worrying after someone else's feelings when I should have been more concerned with my own.

Or maybe I was trembling, not humming, my symptoms suggestive of extreme emotional distress, having fallen victim to overwrought nerves and the apprehension surrounding the discussion of unsavory topics. I wasn't used to so much excitement. I wasn't used to spending so much time in the company of someone who provoked so much hostility, for perhaps the sweetest pleasure of maturity is being able to choose those with whom we do and do not associate.

I realized that I had forgotten my plate with the cake. I hadn't even finished eating my piece. And I liked that cake!

It was my fault for bringing the whole thing. I should have only brought half—or a quarter. Edward Cullen only deserved a quarter of my cake. Probably not even that.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I spent the rest of the afternoon buying and chopping up the ingredients for Seth's tasting menu. _Tasting menu_—his words, not mine. I supposed that it made sense that he wanted to feed everyone who showed up for his gallery opening. Art, minus food, would put all of the focus on the art, whereas art plus food would mean that it was just a party with pretty things to look at. It would create much less pressure.

The following day, Seth, Jane and Alice carefully considered the meager range of my amateur offerings, and chose the peppermint cake balls, the spinach quiche and the tomato/mozzarella/basil skewers. Jane pointed out that none of these choices were particularly sophisticated. I pointed out that Seth was getting the preparation for free. Seth thanked me again and told Jane to shut the fuck up.

After Seth and Jane left, I cornered Alice and got her to admit that there was indeed a proposed engagement between she, myself and Jasper that week.

When was she going to tell me?

She just had.

What day?

Wednesday.

Where?

_Giana's_.

I hmmphed an acknowledgement.

She attempted an escape.

"Wait just one minute," I asked, falling back on the rote language of a sub-standard Hallmark Channel original. "How serious is this?" It was pretty damn serious, it seemed to me, if she was already expecting me to make nice. She had only done so only once before. The ramifications of that decision were not good. I had liked him well enough. But she was so invested that, when things went bad, they went really bad.

"I really like him," she said.

_How can you? _I wanted to ask. But was it my place? For a minute I thought of all of the times that she'd needed me to help her. I remembered what had happened last time, and what could happen this time, if things went bad.

It would be too vulgar though, the speaking of her secrets. I couldn't suggest such a thing to her.

I told her that I was happy for her and that I would be there on Wednesday.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The new candidate for the Ancient Mediterranean position was giving a job talk on the juxtaposition of imagery involving sex and pain in Late Republican poetry, which was all fine and well except that the subject was at least two decades behind the curve on topical topics. Scholars had been doing Martial and his penetrating discourse for decades. These days, Apuleius and donkey shows were considered passé.

Of course no one thought of doing something really shocking and going back to the virgins. Poor virgins. No one cared about them, unless it was to corrupt them. Which didn't seem in the least bit fair.

Apathy, de Sade complained, was not the opposite of desire but rather the feigning of desire. Lack of spontaneity. It seemed to me that virgins weren't apathetic. They were just bored with the prospect of having to feign interest in something that hominids had been doing for millions of years. There was no room left for invention.

I could feel my fellow academes bristle with indignation at being held captive by the hopeful candidate's outline of a devastatingly dull dissertation. _How dare she ask them to be shocked!_ She didn't even reference Archilochus' premature ejaculation or the Roman youths castrating themselves for Attis, though that was probably for the best. One should never try to astonish a scholar with sexual pathos.

The doomed job candidate concluded her talk with a quote from Catullus on Clodia Polcher: "'_I hate and love. Why I do so, perhaps you ask, I know not, but I feel it, and I am in torment_.'" Raising her eyes to the execution squad, oblivious to the fate awaiting her, the candidate smilingly uttered her final words. "So as you go forth in your lives, falling in and out of love, wasting time on one misguided adventure after another, remember that not even two great lovers like Clodia Pulcher and Catullus could make it last. After all, no one picks a poet over a dictator."

And with that, the shooting began. I cringed, listening as one faculty member after another tore the candidate apart. The worst was when the Modern Americanist asked for a definition of culture. "I don't understand," the Modern Americanist complained, "you call yourself a Cultural Historian and you can't even give us a viable definition of culture?!"

After the last shot was fired, Angela and I walked back to our offices. "I don't know," Angela mused quietly, "I bet Catullus let Clodia tie him down. I just don't see Julius Caesar doing that."

"Christ," Jasper whispered behind us. Where had he come from? "Y'all talk trash about Antebellum Americanists. But at least we don't pretend orgies are history."

"How are orgies not history?" Angela asked. "Sexual politics, and all that. The guy doesn't _always_ have to be on top. Isn't that right, Bella?"

_That's right. He can also be in another room, in another house, on another street._

Deigning not to answer, I bid them both adieu and ducked inside my office. I wasn't in the mood for witty banter, not even with Angela, and certainly not with Jasper. I wasn't in the mood for anything.

I had had another strange dream, and I didn't know what to do about it.

I'd dreamt of a bookshop this time, or what had appeared to be a bookshop. There weren't any clerks, but the place had the disorderly, deliciously decadent appearance of a place where items are for sale.

My dream-self had felt a thrill of ecstasy run through her as she scanned the place. It was a chaotic assemblage of every kind of book. Shelves were overstuffed. Books lay strewn in piles on the floor and on counters. There were ladders to allow one to ascend to the lofty heights of the bookcases. The place was clearly a den of inequity. A site of degenerate over-stimulation of the senses. Here was pleasure. Here was, dare one say, happiness.

And I was alone. There weren't any other patrons to spoil my enjoyment. I was left entirely by myself, at my leisure to please myself however I wished.

I rushed into the very midst of the disorderly bookcases, the shelving arranged like the walls of a labyrinth, and began scanning the bindings—multicolored like wildflowers—running my fingers over the spines and pulling down volumes at random. Such a torrent of words rushed past my eyes, the lines sounding in my ears, phrases that meant nothing at the time but that, upon waking, I realized were quotations from Rousseau, Goethe and others. In my dream, the words had been muddled, just bits and pieces that only became clear once I was fully awake, as flashes of the dream came to me while I readied for work, and as I later sat in that job talk on sexualized suffering in the Late Republic.

The candidate had provided a handout for us. I'd listened to her talk, staring at the page she'd provided, recalling a yellowed page from my dream and the script that curled across it, the ink bleeding through the leaf: _'I have never been truly accustomed to civil society_…'

The candidate, trying to situate the Bona Dae incident within the bevy of suspicion surrounding the Bacchae conspiracy decades earlier, had quoted Euripides: '_I have seen the holy Maenads, the women who ran barefoot and crazy from the city…they let their hair fall loose, down over their shoulders, and…fastened their skins of fawn with writhing snakes that licked their cheeks.'_

The Maenads—Bacchae—I remembered, had torn Pentheus apart, the blood running like water, and I saw again one of the volumes that I'd handled in my dream, the binding brilliant like blood, the gold lettering like the chain of a necklace across the spine, and a snippet of the text within: '_…the neighboring jaws of hell begin to open and to rage…_'

Citing the Greek antecedents of the Late Republican authors, the candidate referenced Archilochus and Sappho: '_Hair and breast steeped in perfume, she would wake desire in an old man,' _she read, and '_Like a rosy apple on a high branch is the maiden; the pickers have forgotten her.'_

I'd shaken my head at that, off-put by the surreal nature of it all—this struggle to concentrate on the candidate's lecture while fighting to ignore the irksome recollections from my dream.

I felt myself losing focus. I realized that I was becoming increasingly distracted, but was unable to resist the urge to try and recall as many details of the dream as possible.

I remembered another line: _'Man, awake is compelled to seek a perpetual escape._'

The candidate, reaching forward into the Empire, quoted Seneca: '_I see in myself, Lucilius, not just an improvement but a transformation_.'

And I recalled fumbling through the volumes, overly hasty, perhaps, not quite as respectful as I ought to have been. '_In vain your lover roves the world; the thought of you, Troubles each chamber where he lies; Even as you are true to him, he will be true, To you, no doubt, until he dies.'_ What was that from again?

But no—sitting in my office after the lecture, I remembered the source. I wished that I hadn't. The quotation was too awful in its full implications. '_Its secret parts exposed, its treasures all outspread, As if to charm a lover's eyes.' _

If the beloved, with all of its secret parts exposed, was the bookshop, and its treasures were the volumes that lay inside, then the bookshop was also the victim. A denuded body. '_A corpse without a head…The headless trunk, in shameless posture on the bed, Naked, in loose abandon lies.' _

And I was its murderer, its corruptor: '_Did he at length, that man, his awful thirst too great, For living flesh to satisfy, On this inert, obedient body consummate, His lust?'_

I recalled the rest of the dream then.

Oh, I had been alone in the bookshop for a while, left to my own devices to enjoy myself with the fair beauties, but soon enough the encroachments began. Interlopers. _Other patrons_. They slipped in quietly at first, as though they meant no harm. As though I didn't know just what they were there for.

They showed their true selves before long. Whispered injunctions became threats. Snarls began to sound as they became more frenzied in their inspection of the shelves, until they were grasping and fighting for the books they wanted. Shoving as they went down the aisles. It was a nightmare.

I had never been prone to violence—not even when it came to books—yet how far could I let myself be pushed?

I watched as the newcomers began to wrestle over the volumes, a few of the prizes being torn asunder in the process, sick desecrations too gross to be countenanced. I had to avert my eyes from the horror.

In the midst of so much anarchy, I proceeded with caution, trying to surreptitiously repel attempts to acquire those books in which I was interested, slipping the volumes discreetly from the shelves into my arms, arms that were already overburdened with selections, but each book that I carried was far too valuable to consider leaving behind. If only I could save them all. I consoled myself that I could save a few.

I was succeeding too, until Edward Cullen walked in.

'_Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit._'

Muscles already tensed with anxiety began to scream. My heart rate spiked. But no—it wouldn't do to give myself away.

I followed him through the aisles. He feigned ignorance of my presence, for surely he knew that I was behind him.

I eyed the books that he laid his hands upon, watching as he gathered them greedily into his arms. _One can bear only so much_, I thought.

And then I glimpsed the title of one of the books he'd grabbed.

I followed him through the aisles. He feigned ignorance of my presence, for surely he knew that I was behind him.

I eyed the books that he laid his hands upon, watching as he gathered them greedily into his arms. _One can bear only so much_, I thought.

And then I glimpsed the title of one of the books he'd grabbed: The _Mu'allaqa_. The Hanging Ones. The seven _qasidas_ that legend said were hung up in the Ka'aba. Translated by Sir William Jones in 1782, well before Niebuhr, Burckhardt, Wellsted, Burton, Palgrave and—a woman, as well—Blunt had dared set forth into that desert expanse. A _book_ preceding them all. Words serving in the place of what remained elusive, seduction by proxy, a stretch of sand and windswept dunes still a mirage, while looping, swirling lines of black text against the white page fanned the flames of a lust unconsummated.

Jealousy, red hot, blazed up inside of me as I watched Edward's fingers run over the spine of the book. _Thief!_ Debaucher—glorying in the _qasida_ of one of his own perhaps, a marauder, too, but there the likeness ended, surely, for Edward could never be capable of the depth of sentiment that fired the lament of that warrior-poet who, overcome by grief, had halted in the desert sands by the site of a ruined campsite. '_Halt, friends both! Let us weep, recalling a love and a lodging by the rim of the twisted sands between Ed-Dakhool and Haumal.'_ Edward turned the book over in his hands, inspecting it boldly, as if his possession of it was not a crime, as if he was not an interloper here, amidst these books, slipping in amongst them as the poet himself, Imru' al-Qays, had crept amongst the tents, intent upon the satisfaction of forbidden desires, _'slipping past packs of watchmen…with a whole tribe hankering after my blood, eager every man-jack to slay me._' Imru' al-Qays had at least the excuse of temptation, unrestrained and wild. '_Let the follies of other men forswear fond passion, my heart forswears not, nor will forget the love I bear you.'_ What motive had Edward beyond the gross greed for acquisition? What passion stirred in his breast? For his part, the Vagabond Prince had come seeking his beloved, she '_with the glance of a wild deer of Wajra, a shy gazelle with its fawn," _while Edward had seized—it might as well be by force—such a slim volume, '_thick black tresses,' _the morocco binding a brilliant ruby red, gleaming with gold-leaf script, _'waist slender_,' Edward's fingers everywhere—places where they ought not be!—grasping, demanding, rough and vulgar,_ 'shank like the reed of a watered, bent papyrus,_' the deckled edges of the leaves delicately frayed. What of the real lover could there ever be in Edward's touch?

I watched as his violation proceeded, his every caress defiling, as he opened the book, not in a private and secret place where such intimacies ought to be shared, but in the very midst of others, as if it were a common orgy, the volume's most intimate parts made public for the enjoyment of voyeurs. I spied Edward's eyes roving hungrily over the pages, the black ink exposed, his gaze corrupting. I watched him trail his fingers over the pale yellowed leaves.

I was going to kill him. It had happened before, collectors slaying each other for the possession of a rare tome. That was a reasonable defense, wasn't it? _'Your honor, he didn't deserve that book. It just couldn't be allowed._' I was going to go to prison, where I'd tutor the inmates in French and Enlightenment theories of aesthetics and we'd compose treatises against the injustices of tyranny.

Fortunately, I woke before I could carry out my plan of vengeance.

I was going to kill him. It had happened before, collectors slaying each other for the possession of a rare tome. That was a reasonable defense, wasn't it? _'Your honor, he didn't deserve that book. It just couldn't be allowed._' I was going to go to prison, where I'd tutor the inmates in French and Enlightenment theories of aesthetics and we'd compose treatises against the injustices of tyranny.

Fortunately, I woke up before anything else could happen.

Remembering how the dream had ended, I looked around my office, knowing exactly what it meant.

I had come to imagine that there was a space around me, a narrow zone colonized by little pockets of peace that insulated me from everyone else. Oh sure, there might be a sally now and then from a precocious creature seeking to test the strength of my walls, but such efforts were all for naught. I was impregnable. If the Lady of Shallot left her tower, it was only because she didn't have enough books. I would never come down.

And now here was Edward Cullen attempting to storm the ramparts.

Consider the case of Person X: Awkward at best. Antisocial at worst. A lover of books and loved by them in return, for all that they were inanimate and dead. Who was this person to mix about with others, disrupting their lives as much as her own? She knew to stick to herself, for it was a mistake to think that one's happiness was contingent upon anyone else.

And I was content.

Content.

Until someone tried to take my books.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I was not too surprised when I found Edward sitting with Jasper when I arrived at _Giana's _for the much-anticipated getting-to-know-your-best-friend's-boyfriend/victim repast. Alice hadn't said anything about Edward coming, but I hadn't supposed that Jasper would venture very far without his dear ole comrade in arms.

I was determined to be congenial and charming, for anything less was beneath me. And any suggestion that I might continue to harbor hostility for past wrongs would imply weakness on my part. I would demonstrate that I was impervious to harm.

That was the plan. I had not factored in the fact that I was generally an epic fail.

"When I asked if you wanted a threesome, I meant with Alice, not Edward," I said to Jasper as I sat down. He and Edward choked on their beers and I pretended not to notice. I had meant it as a joke. Was it too much? I glanced around the restaurant, not wanting to make eye contact and unwilling to acknowledge their reaction to my words. "It seems busy tonight. I hope it doesn't get too loud. I hate places where you have to scream to be heard, you know?" As if the three of us had something in common. As if I, like them, was used to going to places with people who wanted to hear what I had to say.

Jasper and Edward were still coughing, so I babbled some more, not wanting to just sit there and watch them sputter uncomfortably. "I haven't seen you around much at the university this week," I said to Jasper. "Not that I necessarily would of course. I mean, you're all American and I'm mostly European. I do hope you support the bid to make the American Studies students learn at least a second language. The disparity in requirements is really ridiculous." The coughing had begun to subside. "You got the night off," I said to Edward. "That must be nice for you." I couldn't think of anything else to say. "Really nice."

Fortunately, Alice arrived then. We faux hugged. I had never been one for displays of overt affection, but as embraces are expected among American females of my age and doesn't really mean anything anyhow, I have learned to adapt.

When Alice noticed Jasper's distress, she hopped around the table and began patting him on the back. "You okay baby?"

This made me feel a trifle guilty, even if I felt that Alice was overdoing it with the _baby_. Should I have offered to help them in a similar fashion? I could have patted them both on the back at the same time. Very efficient.

Whatever my true feelings, we were all pretending to be cordial towards one another. And the rules of etiquette demand that one not sit idly by while someone else chokes to death. I looked at Edward. "Do you want me to pat you on the back?" I asked, hoping he would refuse, uneasy over the familiarity that an acceptance would imply.

"I'm fine," he croaked.

A waitress appeared and took drink orders as Alice sat down between Jasper and me.

"Dude," Edward accused when the coughing had finally subsided. Apparently, the suggestion of a ménage a trois had caused Edward to revert to his teenage patois. "A threesome?"

"To be honest," I clarified, "he was really talking to me and Angela. Alice wasn't even there."

Jasper sat up straight in his chair. "Ah suggested no such thang."

Alice had a finger pressed to her bottom lip. "You're such a gentleman," she simpered. I sincerely hoped that she was fucking with him.

He tipped his hat to her—except that he wasn't wearing a hat so he was just twitching his fingers in the air.

"You do know that you're not wearing a hat, right?" I asked.

Edward decided to run interference by asking if we wanted any appetizers.

I chose not to believe that he was implying that I enjoyed stuffing my face and conferred with Alice on the matter. When the waitress returned, we ordered an appetizer for the table and our individual meals.

Jasper then attempted to engage me in conversation. He said that he was excited to be reaching the middle of the semester because he had plans for a whole unit on the links between architecture and social mores. He was going to talk about how the entrance hall, for instance, had evolved to keep strangers at a distance while the servants' quarters had moved upstairs as a reflection of the changing class structure. If my face showed disinterest, it wasn't intentional. I certainly said nothing to suggest that I didn't find the subject utterly riveting. The truth was, I hadn't planned anything much more exciting for my own classes. But I'd promised myself that I wouldn't be subject to my old prejudices. So I was sure that any distaste that I felt for Jasper was related solely to his obvious inadequacies as an instructor of the youth.

"Chop anyone up today?" I asked Edward, because I didn't want Jasper talking to me anymore and Edward hadn't said much of yet. The rules of civilized social interaction call for the exclusion of no one. Hence, one should ask questions even if one doesn't care to hear the answer.

"That's kind of morbid," Jasper interjected.

"The Civil War was the birthplace of facial reconstructive surgery," I pointed out with a glare. I resented the implication that I might have given offense. "Ever take a gander at those pics? Talk about morbid."

Edward tried to run interference again. "I didn't do anything very interesting today. Just a couple of kids who were trying to get out of school and a few broken bones."

"Well that's good news, isn't it?" I held up my glass, happy to see that the conversation had turned the corner. "Cheers."

"What are we cheersing?" Alice inquired, confused, I could tell over the suggestion of frivolity amidst facial reconstruction and broke bones. So politically correct, she was.

"A boring day is sometimes a good day," Edward explained.

We all cheersed as our food arrived. I imagined that, to anyone seeing our table, the four of us must look like a bunch of old school chums, together again to relive the glory days. Asshole 1 now a tame history geek, Asshole 2 a veritable superhero who saved peoples' lives, Outcast 1 a temperamental clothes freak who still maybe changed personalities to match each day's wardrobe, and Outcast 2 a frigid morbid neurotic who still liked books better than people.

Yep, the best of friends.

Jasper and Alice began discussing authentic Civil War-era fabrics. I truly hoped that Jasper didn't want to involve my dear friend in the seductive world that was _reenactment_. I narrowed my eyes at the two of them in suspicion.

"So why don't you like doctors?" Edward asked me.

"What?" I made myself look at him. "Who said I don't like doctors?"

"You did."

Oh, that's right. I _had_ said that to him that day at his apartment/condo. "They're unfeeling, uncaring assholes," I said it without a trace of malice in my voice. I was merely stating fact.

"That doesn't even make sense. People become doctors to help people." Edward argued doggedly, but in a light tone, not taking offense.

"You didn't become a doctor to help people," I reminded him. "You became a doctor because your daddy wouldn't let you go to Julliard. _Julliard_. That must be fun to tell people. _Ah ahlmost wen' ta Juuuliard_. It's probably nearly as much fun as being able to actually say that you went." I wondered too late if I was crossing a line, the pressure to make conversation encouraging me to say whatever entered my head, no matter how callous. Then again, I didn't know why I was supposed to care about upsetting someone whom I knew to be a dick.

"I didn't _have_ to continue onto med school when I graduated. I chose it."

"Hmph."

"I did."

I pursed my lips.

Edward elaborated. "Maybe I didn't like how people saw me. How easy it was for them to believe the worst of me. No one even looked twice at Eric." He glared at his drink. "As if he was so much better than me."

I ignored his attack on Eric. "So you admit that you were an asshole and that that is why people were so ready to believe that you killed Tanya. And you went to med school to improve your image?"

He nodded.

I felt compelled to point out the flaw in his logic. "You should have chosen another career."

"Like what?"

"A firefighter. Everyone likes firefighters. Or a vampire hunter."

He burst out laughing. "A vampire hunter?"

"It's a thing," I defended myself. "Like Dean Winchester." And then, because the solution for babbling is more babbling. "I know what you're thinking."

"I highly doubt that."

"You're thinking _Why Dean and not Sam? Sam's the smart one_. The problem is, I'm smarter than Sam, and since intelligence and boring nicety are Sam's primary attributes, he has nothing to offer. Whereas Dean isn't nice at all and he's a family man and a good fighter. So I can be in charge of the thinking and he will fight demons."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

I wasn't surprised, so I proceeded to make it worse because, as per usual, if I couldn't be charming I could at least provide a spectacle for amusement. "I have a confession. But you can't tell anyone."

"Who would I tell?"

"Jasper. I don't care what he thinks though. And you don't know anyone else I know, so I suppose it doesn't matter." I leaned towards Edward and lowered my voice. "Whenever I find myself falling asleep while translating a particularly hellish piece of German, I imagine that it's really a spell for exorcising a demon or raising a hellhound, and _voila_," I waved a hand in the air, "I'm awake again. It's fucked up, but I am my mother's daughter after all, and she believes in everything."

"And you said that I was crazy."

"I suppose it is a bit odd."

"You don't really believe in all that do you?" he looked a trifle worried.

"I don't worship demons, nor believe in them. But that doesn't mean I'm going to screw around with Ouija boards or start a creepy doll collection. I see no reason to tempt fate."

"That's probably for the best."

"Do you believe in ghosts or demons?"

"No."

"Fantastic. For a minute, I was afraid that you were going to suggest a séance to talk to Tanya's ghost. I don't believe in ghosts, but I'm not doing that."

"Good. That's a relief." Edward ran a hand over his brow as though wiping off the sweat. I didn't know that people still did that. _What a dork_. I shook my head, confused at the image that Edward was presenting. "What are you teaching this semester?" he asked.

"Are you worried about me corrupting the minds of today's youth with talk of the supernatural?"

"You were the one who brought up critical thinking the other day."

"Early Modern Violence and Religion, which isn't so bad because I get to scream _Heretic_ and shake my fist every now and then. And the Industrial Revolution, which is just too steampunk for my tastes. Everything was fine until fucking emo screwed the pooch."

"Is that what your dissertation was about?"

"My dissertation was on the evolution of the Gothic from the Medieval carnivale, and its relationship to outbreaks of violence in the historical narrative. The discursive relationship between the two."

"I don't know what any of that means."

"I don't remember where my spleen is, so I figure we're even. Though I have always wondered, do you think it's true that Jack the Ripper had medical training?"

"I have no idea."

"Oh well. It's fine. Though you know that there's a documentary that says he came to America."

"Is that what you're working on now? I thought you didn't like serial killers. Or was that just cannibals?"

"Hating cannibals is commonsense. At least the cannibals who kill you in order to eat you. Like _Wrong Turn._ The cannibals who eat their loved ones after a natural death as a sign of affection probably aren't that bad. Though, as a vegetarian, I wouldn't want to do that myself, not to mention that it's the source of Kuru." I paused. "Jack the Ripper, per se, isn't my thing. My current project is an attempt at an objective measure of violence in Gothic literature and contemporary non-literary accounts."

"An objective measure of violence?" He sounded weary.

"It's very important," I said, defending myself. "If it's true that Gothic literature was so grotesque, then one would expect a significant increase in the level of violence that it depicted compared to other forms of literature, including the press. And there was certainly competition. The Marquis de Sade, for one. And I haven't gotten much into this part yet, but of course a useful digression would involve looking into the current historiography. I mean, asking why it is that people still care. For instance, why are there still all of these documentaries about Jack the Ripper? Everyone says that Americans are so insulated from violence, but is that true? There's still plenty of violence. Have you seen the statistics on rape or gang violence? Maybe the problem is _who_ the violence is affecting. It's not the voting middle class or the one percent that supposedly run everything. But then there're video games and movies. Maybe people need violence. That's sick but what else are you going to do? And how do you explain modern serial killers? No one talked about serial killers two hundred years ago. But now we're so civilized and insulated from violence, we not only have serial killers, we glorify them. How is that possible? Were there just as many serial killers in the past, but we just didn't recognize them? Or was violence then so much more prevalent throughout society as a whole that someone who might become a serial killer was able to sublimate the violence by becoming a corner butcher? With processed meat and vegetarians, yes I take some of the credit, a guy who needs an outlet can't just stand on the street and watch a cow get sliced and diced. He could still become a doctor, I suppose, but that's not exactly easy."

I took a break from my rant to apologize. "I didn't mean it like that." I didn't think that Edward had become a doctor to express suppressed rage. Not entirely.

"You're probably the only one who _could_ say that to me and not have me think you were accusing me of something." He shook his head. How wrong he was. "But I don't think that there's less violence today. In the ER, I see the results of people doing the worst things to each other every day. There's plenty of violence in society still."

"You're kind of getting a biased sample, don't you think? Think of other countries where there's genocide."

"Those are extreme examples, and maybe I am getting a biased sample, but doctors can't all be serial killers. I know most of my colleagues say that they went into this profession because they wanted to help people, as I keep reminding you."

I snorted.

"What?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"Doctors are assholes," I repeated.

"You keep saying that, but I haven't heard any evidence to back up the assertion."

"Do you know any doctors who aren't assholes? They're all jerks. I used to think it was the inhumane hours you all work as interns and residents. Or that it was everything you learned about the human body, that it stripped away all of the illusion and broke you. But not one of you would do it if you didn't also want to play God. Otherwise you would have become nurses or physician's assistants. They work the same hours for less pay and get the same dehumanizing training, albeit for fewer years, but they're not assholes."

It was his turn to snort.

"Prove me wrong," I challenged.

"_I_'m not an asshole."

I pursed my lips, thinking it was best if I didn't say what I thought about that.

"I don't _have_ to work in the ER," he said. "I could go somewhere else. I work there because I want to help people."

"Well aren't you Mary fucking Theresa?"

"I _am _Mary fucking Theresa. I hate the ER. I would much rather be in private practice and have a family then work in the ER."

"So do that. Go into private practice and have a family."

"What woman could put up with me?"

"Excellent point. You're doomed." I thought for a minute. ""But really, you don't have to work in the ER. How long does that penance for a crime you didn't even commit last?"

"Maybe it's penance for crimes I did commit," he said gazing at me

I blinked. This discussion was heading in a direction that I didn't like.

I looked at Alice. "Stop ignoring us," I chastised. "We've run out of things to say."

Alice cast a dubious glance in my direction.

"Besides, I thought this was for me to get to know Jasper better," I reminded her.

"What do you want to know?" Jasper asked.

_What do you want with Alice? Why are you pretending to be something you're not?_

At least I knew what Edward wanted from me—someone to enable his obsession with Tanya.

Running interference again, Edward asked Jasper who he thought was going to win Sunday's game. I wasn't sure who was playing in Sunday's game or even what sport was involved so I sat back and sipped on my water.

"You and Edward were getting along very well," Alice observed quietly.

I shrugged, unwilling to say anything one way or another. Did it count as getting along if I was just being polite because it was the civilized thing to do? That seemed rather disingenuous.

"Why is that?" she pressed.

"Do you really want to know?" I asked, a pointless delaying tactic because I knew how she would answer.

"Of course."

"He thinks that I can help him find Tanya's killer."

There was a beat of silence. "That's the stupidest fucking thing that I've ever heard," she snapped, her voice still low so that Jasper and Edward wouldn't overhear.

I was taken aback by the vehemence of her response. For a moment, I was carried away by the drama of the situation, imagining my Lifetime movie again. "If I didn't know you better," I said, "I would think that you'd killed her." It was a ridiculous thing to say.

"You know damn well that I was in Mississippi with my cousins."

"Then what's the problem?" I tried to blow it off.

"The problem is, someone drained all of the blood out of that girl's body. You don't think that sounds like someone you should stay away from?"

"I'm not doing anything dangerous. I'm just sitting in Edward's apartment and looking at lists of suspects."

"His apartment?"

"He calls it a condominium. Instead of rent, he probably pays a mortgage and home owners' association fees, but it seems like the same difference to me."

"Just be careful."

"What the fuck am I going to do? He wants to go talk to people. But I have seen too many horror movies to go down like that. Japanese originals too. No way some _oiwa_ bitch is going to take me out."

"You know that I'm here for you, no matter what," she said.

"Sure sure," I lied. Then I remembered.

"Hey Jasper," I asked, raising my voice so that he could hear me but not so much that my question could be overheard by anyone sitting at the surrounding tables. "Where were you when Tanya died?"

Edward glared at me. _What? He thought I was going to just let this go?_

"I was in Texas," Jasper answered, sounding none too pleased by my choice of topic.

"Texas? What's in Texas?"

"My grandma."

"Oh. You got a ticket stub for that?"

Edward set his beer down on the table a tad more forcefully than I thought necessary.

Okay, perhaps I was a little put out with Alice for making me endure this outing. And perhaps I was slightly angrier over past grievances involving Edward and Jasper than a person entirely at peace with her world ought to be. Because how else could I possibly justify what I did after that?

Rolling my eyes at Edward, I huffed. "Who better to frame you and make me look a liar than our own best friends?"

**AN: Oiwa – a Japanese ghost**

**'**_**I have never been truly accustomed to civil society, where all is worry, obligation, duty, and where my natural independence renders me always incapable of the subjections necessary to whoever wishes to live among men.'**_** \- Rousseau**

**'…**_**it is a strange feeling to go about with people who think of nothing but enjoying themselves…They run all day backward and forward in a paradise, without looking about them; and if the neighboring jaws of hell begin to open and to rage, they have recourse to St. Januarius.' **_**\- Goethe on Naples**

**"**_**The profoundest instinct in man is to war against the truth; that is, against the Real…His life is a perpetual evasion. Miracle, chimera and tomorrow keep him alive…Man, awake, is compelled to seek a perpetual escape into Hope, Belief, Fable, Art, God, Socialism, Immortality, Alcohol, Love. From Medusa-Truth he makes an appeal to Maya-Lie**_**." - Jack London**

**'**_**A corpse without a head…The headless trunk, in shameless posture on the bed, / Naked, in loose abandon lies, / Its secret parts exposed, its treasures all outspread / As if to charm a lover's eyes…Did he at length, that man, his awful thirst too great / For living flesh to satisfy, / On this inert, obedient body consummate / His lust?-O ravished corpse, reply!…I leave you lying as you are, / Mysterious unfortunate. / In vain your lover roves the world; the thought of you / Troubles each chamber where he lies; / Even as you are true to him, he will be true / To you, no doubt, until he dies.**_**' - Baudelaire **

**'**_**Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.**_**' This is Athena who wounds you, Athena who sacrifices and takes vengeance via your wicked blood. – Vergil**

**The **_**Mu'allaqa **_**of Imru' al-Qays, translation by Robert Irwin.**

**Rec: "Waterloo" by spanglemaker9: I was defeated; you won the war. But how could I ever refuse? I feel like I win when I lose. Bella hates Edward…maybe. Written for The Faithful Shipper's Abba One Shot Contest. AH Twilight - Rated: M - English - Romance - Chapters: 5 - Words: 38,135 - Reviews: 614 - Favs: 1,040 - Follows: 246 - Updated:Apr 12, 2012 - Published: Apr 2, 2010 - Bella, Edward - Complete**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you to Megs from Bookish Temptations for the recommendation! I ought to have included this last week but am an epic fail *she apologizes mournfully***

**And thank you to SunflowerFran and WonderfullyBedazzled for the recommendations!**

**And thank you to reviewers who have stuck with me from the beginning (and are still sticking with me even when they don't love everything I do) and everyone new who reviewed and added me to their alerts/favorites! You've blown me out of the water!**

**Meyer owns all. Also, I have already admitted that this story was inspired in part by Gillian Flynn's **_**Dark Places, **_**but I swear that I had already decided what to do with Kate before I got to the part in**_** Dark Places**_** about a certain someone in a similar situation. And I'm pissed about it too because I thought I was being so original! *she says while writing ffn***

Chapter 7

'_I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good.' – Robert Louis Stevenson_

BPOV

_Last time on _Gothic, _we left our heroine at a restaurant with her best friend and two gentlemen of less than sterling reputation. Feeling ill at ease in the midst of this company, our heroine naturally responded by making a fool of herself, and to top it all off, proceeded to accuse her best friend and one of the gentlemen in question of setting her up to take the fall with the other gentleman in question for a brutal slaying. _

Unsurprisingly, neither Alice nor Jasper really appreciated the observation that they, as our best friends, were aptly placed for framing Edward and me for Tanya's murder. Alice was used to my lack of regard for the social niceties, and merely rolled her eyes, but Jasper took it less easily in stride.

Which wouldn't have bothered me in the least—I would be more than happy to have finally done or said something to get under the prick's skin—but _I _was not the target of his ire.

It appeared that Jasper had not realized that Edward was looking into Tanya's murder again. Which was stupid. Jasper had clearly invited Edward to that first happy hour with the knowledge that Edward wanted to see me. And what other reason could Edward have for meeting me then the rehashing of events surrounding a certain tragedy? _I_ might have been a little slow on the uptake regarding Edward's motives, but I was not his best friend.

In any case, Jasper was obviously unhappy to learn at present that his friend had resumed the investigation. An investigation that all of Edward's friends and family seemed to have assumed had long ago been laid to rest.

Jasper articulated his concern that Edward was becoming—how should one put it? _obsessive? almost disturbingly possessed? increasingly creepy in his fanatic preoccupation?_—overly fixated on a subject regarding which everyone had decided that Edward could accomplish nothing.

"There isn't anything you can do," Jasper said.

I happened to agree with Jasper, but felt guilty for causing a rift between two friends.

Then I was just confused. Because why should I feel guilty? The rules of etiquette demanded that I attempt to resolve the conflict and apologize for my part in it, but a latent hint of spite suggested that I ought to bask in their discomfort. Was I really that petty?

Yes.

No.

Yes.

I held up a hand. "Jasper, it's not just Edward," I said. "It's me. I'd like to get some closure." I wasn't sure that this was entirely true but Jasper seemed to buy it.

The rest of the evening was somewhat more somber, something for which I realized that I must take responsibility. Did I prefer the fiction of conviviality to the reality of mismatched persons and social classes?

Yes.

No.

Yes.

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Edward had told me where to find Kate Denali. He couldn't talk to her, he said, because that bridge had been burned all the way to the ground, and blasts had been set off to widen the channel of the river. But there was nothing barring me from questioning her.

He was gravely mistaken on this point. Engrained prejudice and the terror of social interaction posed a very significant bar to me questioning Kate Denali. Fortunately, I was able to convince Seth to go with me.

"Why the fuck am I here?" he asked, eyeing the pink neon outline of breasts flashing over the door. The red nipples were a nice touch, I thought, though it was all very ethnocentric.

"You're a guy," I reminded him, dragging him behind me through the door.

"And?"

"You're here for a lap dance."

The music was very loud. And there was a strobe. I hated strobes.

I wasn't very sure how to go about the next steps. Would I recognize Kate?

I doubted it. The women here were very heavily made-up, and nearly all of them were brandishing platinum blond hair that must have come from bottles. Kate had been a natural blonde but she had been fourteen the last time I'd seen her.

"Where should we sit?" I asked Seth.

"Back in my Mini," Seth suggested. He had a hand covering his eyes.

"You're embarrassing me," I hissed, pulling his hand down and pushing him into a seat well enough away from the other patrons. I sat down next to him, balancing on the edge of the squishy seat, trying not to touch anything. Why had I worn a skirt?

"What can I get you?" a waitress asked.

"A Pumpkin Ale," I said, the seriousness of the situation doing nothing to alleviate my need for all things Halloween-related as long as the season was in. With my eyes carefully trained above the waitress's shoulders, I asked, "And um, is Kate working tonight? Kate Denali?"

"You know her?" The waitress scanned me dubiously.

"We went to high school together."

"Whatever, I'll tell her you're here. What about you?" She looked at Seth.

"Anything in a bottle. Just bring the bottle. With the lid still on."

"He's an asshole," I swiftly apologized. "You're an asshole," I told him, to reinforce the lesson, after the waitress rolled her eyes and turned away.

"I'm here as a favor to you. You said 'strip club.' You didn't say 'women's strip club.'"

"You honestly thought I would go with you to a male strip club?"

"If you would just agree to watch _Magic Mike_—"

I deemed it best not to reply, turning my attention to the woman on stage. She was quite acrobatic. Bending my head upside down to follow her contortions, I said, "Did I ever tell you that my stripper name's Liesle?"

"Liesle?" Seth guffawed.

"Yes. And I would have braids and my routine would be to Rasputina's _The Hunter_."

"You are the weirdest person I know."

Coming from Seth, this was a true compliment. Giving him a genuine smile, I thanked him.

"You looking for me?" inquired the strawberry blonde who had appeared with our drinks.

"You're Kate?" I asked, studying her features and trying to recognize her.

"Yep," she smiled, popping the 'p.' "You want a lap dance?"

"How much?" I asked, having already decided that this would be the best way to obtain an opportunity for questioning her.

"A hundred."

I nodded and pushed Seth back in his seat so that there would be sufficient room for Kate to straddle his lap.

"Uh—it's two hundred for him. The hundred's for you, honey."

That was unexpected. "But I—" Seth glared at me. _Fine_. I sat back in the squishy chair. So gross. "Okay." It was really hypocritical of me to ask something of him that I wouldn't be willing to do myself.

She set down the tray and maneuvered herself onto my lap while I tried to determine the pattern of the strobe—pink, blue then green, pink blue then green, then purple, then—

"You can look, you know," Kate said, as she began moving.

My eyes flashed down to her face. "I know. It's not that you're not pretty." I said. "It's me, not you." She was very glossy. And things seemed larger than they ought to have been—bulging at the seams unnaturally. It reminded me of a hot dog sweating on the grill, the rat meat swelling at a different rate than the pig intestine, causing unseemly bulges.

She laughed, taking my hands and putting them on her slightly oily hips. Oh, that wasn't necessary. It wasn't that she was a stripper. It was that _just so many men_ had probably already grasped those slightly oily hips that evening. While I might have manhandled Seth to get him into this place, that was a special occasion and a protective layer of clothing had been involved.

"You don't approve of strippers?" she asked, adding a little hip swivel for emphasis.

It wasn't that. "A job is a job is a job." I wondered if I was expected to do anything special. Like should I have been gyrating back? Participating?

She laughed again, her shiny round breasts bouncing unnaturally in front of my face. I hoped that she wasn't going to try to rub them on my cheeks. "I'm just not you're type?"

I thought for a moment. "I suppose that I'm more of a Juliet Landrau kind of girl."

"Who?"

"From _Buffy_."

"No idea."

"Skeletal brunette." Drusilla was much less intimidating than Kate, except for the fangs, of course. There was just _so much_ of Kate.

"Skinny? Like you? You want to fuck yourself?"

I looked from my relatively flat chest to Kate's decidedly more amply endowed bosom. I wouldn't have said that I was skeletal. Not curvaceous, but not skeletal.

Kate continued. "You must have high self-esteem."

I'd never thought of it that way.

I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. "No pictures," I snapped at Seth.

"You're killing me," he responded.

"Not the face," I insisted. "I'll lose my job."

"You can trust me," Seth promised, clicking away on his phone.

By then the song had come to an end and I hadn't even had a chance to ask my questions. It seemed to me that since Kate had started mid-song, I should at least get the first half of the next song for my money but I was never one to barter and my hands just felt so sticky and I was already wiping them off on my skirt before I realized how rude that probably looked and it wasn't helping anyhow because Kate had been gyrating all over that very skirt with her slick thighs and so the fabric too now bore a fine film of oil. Then I was apologizing for trying to wipe my hands off, as if I thought she wasn't good enough to touch—she was just so damn greasy—and yelling at Seth to pay her while he sat there not helping (he could have found me some napkins) and chuckling at my expense.

Before she could go, I stopped her. "Look I'm sorry. He'll pay you for another dance. But I have some questions I want to ask you."

Kate held her tray in front of her chest like a shield, as if I hadn't already seen her breasts bouncing up close and personal. "About what?"

I sighed, anticipating the discomfort that was sure to come as soon as she heard her sister's name. "Tanya."

She backed up a step. "I don't remember you from school."

"I was a senior when you were a freshman. I was in the same class as Tanya."

"What's your name?"

"Isabella Swan."

Kate dropped the tray and glared. "Oh, fuck you."

"I didn't lie about Edward Cullen," I told her.

"Yeah right."

"I'm telling you that I wouldn't lie for him. He made my life miserable in high school. For the record, so did your sister."

"Then why the fuck do you care what happened to her?"

"Because I'm human." _Look at me_, I thought, _dishing out the platitudes_.

"It happened ten years ago."

"So people are supposed to give up? Don't you think the asshole who killed your sister deserves to go to jail even if ten years have passed?""

She studied me for a minute. "Four hundred. You want me to answer your questions? It'll be four hundred dollars."

_Mother of fuck_. Edward was paying me back for this _and_ for the lap dance. The Purell it was going to take to get my hands clean was _gratis_. "Fine."

Kate sat down—in her own chair—and admitted, after several leading questions, that she didn't know who had killed her sister. That is, if it wasn't that fucker Cullen. There had practically been a revolving door on her sister's bedroom. And who was Cullen to get all high and mighty and break up with Tanya just because she cheated? Like it was such a big surprise.

"Was she only with guys from Forks High?" I asked.

"As if. I think they came from all over. Older guys too. Replacements for daddy. We didn't have what you would call an awesome up-bringing."

It wasn't as if my own up-bringing was anything to write home about. "Anyone in particular? Do you have names?"

She inspected her nails. "I don't know. Newton's father. That guy who ran the grocery store. I swear she fucked the guy from the gas station in the port-a-potty that the construction workers on Main Street were using. Everyone who had any interest at all. She wasn't exactly discerning."

"What about your other sister? Irene. Would she have any suggestions?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "You want to talk to my sister?" She smiled. "You can talk to my sister."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Irene Denali was currently residing in _The_ _Wellman's Clinic_. Kate had me added to the visitors' list.

Calling a mental health clinic _Wellman's_ seemed a little fucked up, but who was I to criticize?

I kept my sunglasses on after I walked inside. Easier that way. The place was triggering too many thoughts that I didn't like to have in my head. I probably looked like a prick, but it was all that I could do to make myself ask for Irene and sign the register.

I followed the orderly through a set of doors that we had to be buzzed through, the doors clanging shut behind us and the locks clicking audibly into place. I wondered if I should have brought something for Irene—societal norms dictate the bringing of a gift—but I wondered what I could have possibly brought for someone I'd seen only once or twice in my life. Besides, this wasn't just a hospital where you could bring flowers and crossword puzzles.

I fucking loathed mental health facilities. Either it was in my head or it was an objective fact, but there was a kind of misery about such places—at least there was with this one and the two where they'd put Alice—a dread that hung in the air and crawled inside of me. Not Bedlam perhaps, not cackling madness, but rocking stony-gazed silence and agitated trembling and the sound of weeping, the kind of noise that makes a person want to wrap her arms around her torso in sheer animal fear of whatever thing has caused so much pain. I tried not to look at the people—it would be rude to force yourself upon them in such a state, would it not? To make them watch you watching them? And yet refusing to see them was a kind of rudeness too, wasn't it? Like they weren't good enough to see.

It hurt though. It hurt too much. I hadn't wanted to come.

I'd thought: _Just go. It doesn't mean anything. If you don't go, it'll mean that it means something. And it doesn't._

So I'd gone. And I wished that I hadn't.

Irene was sitting in front of the windows, gazing at the rain. I stood awkwardly in front of her, then took off my sunglasses, feeling like a tool.

"Is it alright if I sit?" I asked.

She didn't reply, so I sat after a moment.

"Do you like the rain?" I wondered, glancing out the window. "It's so peaceful."

"I like the sun," Irene answered softly.

"Oh." I supposed some people _did _prefer the sun. I tried to console her. "It will be sunny again." In Seattle? "Soon."

"I like it when it's sunny and we go outside." She closed her eyes and tipped her face up to the nonexistent sun.

I didn't know what Irene's diagnosis was. Whatever it was, they were still letting people see her. But she was probably monitored at all times. I tried to imagine what that would be like. Locked up in here with so many other people. I bet that she was never allowed off on her own. She probably even had a roommate.

I said, "I met your sister Kate."

Irene looked over my shoulder as if looking for her sister. "Kate's here?"

"No, I'm sorry. She said that I could come see you. She misses you." I assumed that last bit was true.

"She sent you?"

"She did. Kate wanted me to check on you and see how you were doing."

Irene looked back out the window, not replying.

I began to question the purpose of my visit. It would be wrong of me to bring up a topic that might upset her.

"You're Edward Cullen's friend," Irene said slowly.

I wasn't really his friend, but this wasn't the time for semantics. I was surprised that she was even aware of our connection. I highly doubted that she had recognized me. Irene had been no more than twelve when Tanya died. "How did you know?"

"Kate told me you were coming. She calls me sometimes at night."

"That's nice." I didn't know what else to say. I didn't have the courage to ask her anything about the murder.

"You want to know who killed Tanya," she prompted again.

I opened and closed my mouth stupidly. "I want to help her," I said. Irene's prescience was off-putting.

"You can't help her, she's dead."

I didn't like the sound of her voice. So eerily calm. I tried to defend myself, "I think she would want her killer to be found."

Irene's eyes swung back in my direction. "You won't find him. He's gone."

I blinked. "How do you know?" I didn't care for this conversation. Irene's disinterested manner and the general aura of the place were starting to get to me.

"I saw him with her."

"That night? You saw Tanya with the man from the Volvo?" Maybe Tanya and her sisters had met the man earlier in the day and he'd waited until Tanya was alone to pounce.

"He came to visit her every night."

"Every night?" I was confused.

Irene waved a hand through the air. "Like smoke, through the window. Poof."

Oh. I swallowed.

She leaned towards me and lowered her voice. "He changes his face. Like a different man every time." She pulled away again. "All vampires can change shape," she explained.

I didn't know what to say. "I didn't know that," I told her, my voice weak.

She nodded. "It's true. They drink blood, too. He drank all of Tanya's blood. I'm not supposed to have blood they say."

_What?!_

She held a hand to her mouth. "I'm thirsty though, all of the time."

I was frozen in my chair. "Do you—" What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? "Do you want something to drink?"

Her eyes flashed to my face again.

"Water," I said quickly. "I could get you some water."

Irene sighed and turned away. "I suppose so."

I stood up. "I'll be right back," I lied and headed for the exit.

This was above and beyond the call of duty. Far be it from me to call someone out for becoming a stripper or finding herself committed to a mental health institution—apparently against her will—but fuck if I was going to go on the menu myself. Had I not been clear with Edward about my feelings on cannibalism?

I turned down the hallway and shied away from an orderly trying to return a patient to his room. Where the fuck was the exit? Why didn't I pay attention when I was being shown in? Why did I always have to be so fucking unobservant?

I turned around again. I was clearly going the wrong way and the exit was probably on the other side of this uzimaki.

Who the fuck put a mental health clinic in an uzimaki? Was I the only one who watched Japanese horror movies? (And had the sleepless nights to prove it.)

I turned down another empty corridor and hurried past the closed doors, pausing when I came back out into the common room at the end. Irene was still staring out the window. I tried to sneak past her, to the doorway on the opposite side of the room, and was brought up short by a man blocking the way.

I stepped to the side to go around him and he mirrored my movement. Disconcerted, I glanced up at his face and was startled to see him glaring back at me.

"Why are you bothering my daughter?" he demanded.

**AN: I truly appreciate readers sticking with me even though they're like 'Huh.' And for the record, I've had to look up more than one of the things that y'all have written in your reviews (I think some of you are testing me). But I enjoy reading things that are random/weird/confusing/surreal. I enjoy not knowing what's going on sometimes. It's like weed without the danger of being arrested—oh wait, I guess that's not an issue anymore. In any case, perhaps I should start including a "Random digression warning" at the top of every chapter… **

_**Uzimaki**_** translates to 'spiral' or something like that, according to the subtitles of the Japanese horror movie by that name. There's something very kitschy creepy about the film—like Nimoy's **_**In Search Of**_**. If you are going to watch this or any other foreign film, horror or not, do not—I mean it—**_**do not**_** use dubbing. **_**Always**_** watch with subtitles. No exceptions. You watch with dubbing, I don't want to hear about how you think it sucked. However, I must say, it's surreal/weird/random. You won't know what's going on. So if you don't like that, don't watch. If you do…be warned that I stopped eating cinnamon toast for a while after I saw this movie because of the swirls the cinnamon made in the bread. **

**Rec: Saturday Night Fever by RebeccaSwanCullen **While everyone else in their group gets along just fine, Edward and Bella simply seem to hate each other. The question is, is there more behind their supposed animosity? And what will they do once they acknowledge that fact? AU/AH.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you to the International House of Fanfic (Ficsters dot com) for the glowing review!**

**Another thanks to cjesmom and Tarbecca for the recs! They are much appreciated!**

**Posting early in light of a certain holiday happening this week in the States!**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 8

'_While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped _

_Thro' many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin_

_And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing_

_Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.'_

_Percy B. Shelley_

BPOV

_Last time on _Gothic_, our heroine was attempting to take her leave of one of sisters of the dearly departed Tanya Denali when her escape was arrested by the father of said deceased. He did not seem to take it at all kindly that our heroine was discovered visiting his daughter, a young woman whose demeanor, it must be confessed, seemed slightly more morbid than is expected of the general public. _

Aro Denali stepped threateningly towards me. "Why are you here?" he asked.

I took a step back and glanced around. There were a few orderlies busy with patients. We weren't really alone. He couldn't do anything to me.

I glanced back at him and cringed. Even before Tanya had died, I'd been frightened of Aro—of Mr. Denali, all these years later, I still thought of him as Mr. Denali, Tanya's father. There was just something about him that I had never liked. Charlie had had him over for poker one night when I was fifteen or sixteen. Making nice with the locals or something. Mr. Denali was a harmless small-town lawyer. Sleazy, maybe, but not a criminal. Right? At least, not until after Tanya died.

_I'll do to you what he did to her_, I remembered him screaming at me as he pounded on the front door of Charlie's house after my statement to the police got Edward released. It had taken Charlie ten minutes to get home and drag Mr. Denali away. Ten minutes that I'd spent in the kitchen on the floor with a butcher knife in my hands.

"I remember you," Mr. Denali snarled at me in the common room of his daughter's psychiatric clinic. His cheap suit did little to improve his appearance, the features of his face twisted with rage. The years had not been kind. He had the look of an alcoholic. He had and his daughters had moved away from Forks nine years ago.

"I'm trying to help," I tried to explain idiotically. But who was I really helping? Edward Cullen—the very man that Aro Denali blamed for his daughter's death.

"I don't know what that whore daughter of mine was thinking when she had you added to the visitors' list, but you're off of it now."

He advanced another step towards me, his hands closing into fists. I stumbled back and his eyes glittered as if he was contemplating some foul deed.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, attempting to placate him. "I didn't lie about Ed—"

"Do _not_ say that bastard's name in my presence!" Mr. Denali shouted.

That finally got some attention, as I spied an orderly approaching.

"I'll just go." I tried to edge my way around Mr. Denali.

"Is there a problem here?" the orderly asked.

"No, no problem," I replied, wanting to get away as fast as possible.

"Yes, there's a problem. This woman hasn't got any right to be here. I want her arrested."

Arrested?

"Sir—"  
"I'm going," I broke in, "I'll just go."

Our argument seemed to be disrupting some of the patients. Irene was staring at us blankly, but the fellow in the corner had started rocking more furiously and a few of the others were casting dubious glances in our direction.

"You can't go," a man by the window said. "You can't ever go."

The orderly was reasoning with Mr. Denali, apparently having overheard most of our exchange. "If she was on your daughter's visitors' list then I'm afraid that we can't have her arrested. But you've taken her off the list now. So let's just let her go, and she won't come back."

"If you think that I'm going to let her off that easily," Mr. Denali reached for me and I jumped out of the way.

The orderly grabbed Mr. Denali's arm and pulled him back. "You're going to upset the patients."

Mr. Denali threw a punch at the orderly and the man rocking in the corner began wailing. I turned and fled in the direction from which Mr. Denali had come, not pausing to see if anyone was following until I reached the desk by the exit.

"You can't run in here," the woman at the counter snapped.

"Let me out, please," I begged.

"Calm down," she hissed.

I stood with my hand on the door, gazing worriedly back over my shoulder at the empty hallway from which I could still hear the wails of patients, with my muscles tensed for a fight.

The buzzer sounded and I shoved at the door.

"Don't slam the door!" the woman yelled.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I met Edward in the cafeteria of the hospital a few nights later to tell him about the Denalis.

His knee bounced uneasily throughout it all.

"They didn't give you any names?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He sighed. "Well, I never heard this nonsense about a vampire before, but it's not surprising, what with how Tanya died and Irene's mental state."

I almost asked if he thought Irene really drank blood, and if so, did she have porphyria, which seemed unlikely given her love of the sun, but that was just my morbid penchant for the gothic at work, and also suggested a shocking dearth of empathy. The rules compel a show of compassion.

Instead, I asked him about what Kate had said, reasoning that this was at least related to our so-called investigation. "Did you know that Tanya—" I broke off.

"Slept around that much?"

I nodded.

Edward grimaced. "I knew she wasn't a saint, but I didn't realize it was that bad. I thought it was just the guys in our class."

I wondered if he'd had himself tested for STDs, but of course he would have. Ten years had passed. It was morbid curiosity on my part again—or faux concern stemming from this fiction of friendship that had grown between us. It was none of my business. I asked, "How is it that none of this came out during the police investigation?"

Edward shrugged. "Some of it did. At least the part about Mike and some of the other guys in our class. But they all had their bullshit alibi because of that party at First Beach. I think Lauren and Jessica must have known more. They were probably trying to protect Tanya's reputation."

"Hmph."

"What?"

"I didn't say anything."

Edward eyed me suspiciously but let it go. "We'll need to get a list of everyone though. Make sure that we really know who had a motive. I just don't understand how Tanya could have hidden all of this from me. And now Kate's stripping. She was such a sweet kid. How the fuck does something like that happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"There is clearly something seriously wrong going on in that family. I knew that their mother's death was pretty rough and that Tanya never got along with her father. But what the fuck?"

Tanya's proclivity for sleeping around was, I supposed, questionable, at least from the perspective of public health, though I wasn't sure that I had a right to judge. And Irene seemed a little outré, but perhaps she just had an iron deficiency. Kate seemed fine to me. "What's wrong with stripping?"

Edward looked shocked. "Isn't it a violation of the feminist bill of rights?"

"If a man is stupid enough to give a woman money for taking off her clothes then good for her."

Edward shook his head. "I'm having trouble believing that you're really okay with that."

"It's not something that _I_ am going to do." I shrugged. "A man would probably be more likely to pay me to put my clothes back on. I know that other feminists would disagree with me. But I think feminism is about supporting women's choices—even ones that you think are stupid. Personally, I didn't like the—" I held up my hands, "—touching. So oily." I shuddered. "But I'm not a guy. Maybe they like it."

"You _touched _Kate?"

"She gave me a lap dance."

"_What?!_"

"I thought that was what I was supposed to do," I defended myself, feeling the blood rush to my face. "I brought Seth, but she said that he was more expensive, so I had the lap dance instead. You owe me, by the way, not just the money for the lap dance and the money that she wanted in exchange for answering my questions, but for saving you money by getting the lap dance myself instead of making Seth get it." I crinkled my nose. "Though I suppose that I could have just skipped the lap dance and asked my questions. But maybe she was only allowed to sit with us because she'd already given me a lap dance." I gave up. "I don't know about things like that."

Edward gaped at me.

I changed the subject, uncomfortable with the current topic. "Tell me again why you think Eric did it." To be fair, I _was_ concerned about Edward's suspicions on this point.

Edward's demeanor changed instantly, his shoulders stiffening. "He was a freak."

Asshole. "I was a freak."

"You have an alibi. You were watching me in the woods," Edward smirked.

"I wasn't _watching_ you. And what is it that they always say about serial killers? _He was so nice. I never would have imagined he could do something like that_. Now _I _never would have said that you were nice or likeable, but you had a lot of friends who presumably would have. So a popular guy like you is a far more likely suspect. Or Mike."

"Oh, that fucker's on my list too."

"Funny how everyone is on your list except for the people who we happen to know for a fact got a sick pleasure out of making others suffer."

Edward opened his mouth to reply, but fortunately his pager went off, effectively cutting him off. "I've got to go," he said.

I smiled sweetly. "Have fun slicing and dicing."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

That night, I googled Eric Yorkie. I didn't often google people. Doing so would imply that I cared what they were doing. Of course, Edward had a whole sheaf of information as to Eric's activities over the last ten years, but I didn't want to raise his suspicions by asking to see it again.

I was surprised by the number of hits that popped up. Eric, it seemed, was a frequent contributor to video game—or was it card game?—websites. I found a few reviews that he'd written, and appreciated his use of grammar. Finding him listed as an employee on the website for a local shop called _The Game_, it occurred to me that Eric wouldn't mind seeing me again. We shared a kind of kinship, didn't we? Forged by our shared experiences in the hell that was high school.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

"Fuck that," Eric snapped, clearly not giving a shit if he was overheard by the two patrons currently thumbing through comic books on the far side of the store.

Eric was in the midst of stocking a shelf of _Firefly _figurines when I came in. _The Game_ was a fairly tiny shop, nestled amongst the less frequented byways of a recession-laden outer suburb whose populace didn't seem to have the cash to fund hobbies. There was grime on the windows and dust on the shelves. I wondered how the shop managed to stay open.

I conceded the awkwardness of the conversation at hand. "I know Tanya's death was upsetting but—"

"Are you fucking kidding me? I hated that bitch."

Didn't he know that we were supposed to have gotten past all of that? "Still, shouldn't we try to find out who killed her?"

"Why? The only thing I regret is that it didn't happen sooner."

_The shooter was a freak_, I remembered hearing recently on the radio after a school shooting on the other side of the country. _He _deserved_ to be ostracized._ It was a tautology: The shooter was a freak so he deserved to be ostracized so he was ostracized so he was a freak. Being a teacher now, I knew that I couldn't afford to be complacent. But I also knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such degrading treatment, treatment that was itself a kind of violence, but one that would be tolerated until the victim lashed back.

Eric wasn't done though. "Whoever he was, he could have taken out the whole clique for all I care."

"Who do you think it was?" I asked.

"Cullen," Eric answered with an angry shrug.

"But I know it wasn't him."

Eric sneered at me. "Yeah right."

"I _saw _him."

"And you just had to run and tell the cops, didn't you?"

"I couldn't let an innocent person go to jail."

"Why not? Do you have _any_ idea what they put me through?"

I didn't know what to say. Of course I had an idea what they'd put him through. They'd done the same things to me.

Eric ran his eyes over me. "Look at you," he said. "Just like them now. Think you're too good for the rest of us."

_What?_ I was dressed for work, in black slacks and a tailored top, but that didn't mean anything. "I haven't changed," I said. If he thought that I was bad, he would _loathe_ Alice.

"Please. Look at me."

I looked at Eric. He was wearing a t-shirt with a reference I didn't understand and black jeans. He looked fine to me. "You look the same," I told him.

"Exactly. I'm not running around kissing up to assholes who used to treat me like shit and dressing like someone else. I'm not the one defending the very people who wouldn't bother to piss on me after they finished setting me on fire."

"But all that's done. That was in the past."

"You honestly think that they would treat you like a human being if you bumped into them today?"

I hadn't told Eric the true reason for my interest in Tanya's death. I'd left out Edward's name entirely. For all Eric knew, I was doing this for myself.

Consequently, Eric had zero reason to think that his old nemeses were capable of change. How could I blame him? I didn't really think they were capable of change myself.

I didn't want to ask, but I had to. "You _were_ on the beach that night, weren't you?"

"Yes I was on the fucking beach. You want to know how I remember?" He pulled up his t-shirt, showing me a long scar across his stomach. "It was the worst night of my fucking life."

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they'd done much worse things to Eric than they'd ever done to me.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Four nights later, I buzzed Edward's apartment at exactly six o'clock. I had decided not to tell him about Eric, not wanting to fuel Edward's obsession for a guy who'd been bullied so badly that he hadn't even pressed charges when he was stabbed because he knew that no one would back up his version of events.

My decision to say nothing to Edward about seeing Eric had received unexpected justification when I tried talking to Jasper about the murder in the faculty lounge that afternoon. Jasper had snapped at me, saying that this crusade of Edward's was out of control, that Edward needed help and that I shouldn't be encouraging him. I got the sense that there was more to the story than what I was hearing. It wasn't as if this—whatever it was—had completely disrupted Edward's life. He was a doctor, which ought to have required some demonstration of competency, and I'd no doubt that he was just as much the life of the party as ever.

The look on Jasper's face told me that maybe I was wrong, but I also remembered the look on Eric's face when I left the shop. A look that Edward and Jasper had had no small part in putting there, even if they weren't present the night that Eric was stabbed. How could I reconcile the Jasper and Edward that I knew ten years ago with the men they seemed to be now? I was confused, to say the least.

"Can I get you anything?" Edward asked after letting me up, stepping out of the way for me to enter his not so humble abode.

"I'm good." I was still resolved to see this through. But it wouldn't behoove me to forget everything Edward had once done. Recent good behavior aside, he was no doubt incapable of sustained civilized interaction. I would endeavor to stay on his good side, following the path of least resistance and pretending that I didn't know what kind of a person he really was.

"Did you eat yet? Because we could have dinner and then go."

"Already ate. But if you want something—" I trailed off, quite proud of myself,feigning a conscientious concern for his well-being.

"Fast food's fine," Edward said as he slung a duffel bag over his shoulder and followed me back out into the hall. "So I think we should take my car," he said as we waited for the elevator.

"We're riding together?" I asked.

"Why not? It only makes sense."

It might make sense from a fuel economy perspective, but it was hardly in line with the restriction of social interaction.

"We can take my truck," I told him.

"No. I saw your truck in the parking lot of Giana's. It's the same truck you drove in high school."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's also the same truck that your grandfather drove to high school," Edward observed.

"Not true. And even if it were, that just goes to show the beauty of American craftsmanship."

"It'll take three times as many tanks of gas to get to Forks as my Porsche."

"A Porsche? You're seriously going to call out my truck when you drive a Porsche?"

"What's wrong with a Porsche?"

There were many things. My middle class skin would probably break out in hives just from sitting in the thing. But I remembered that I was trying to be nice.

Edward seemed to take my silence as a challenge. "It's very safe," he defended himself.

"You are the one I remember getting all of the traffic tickets in high school. If anyone needs protection, it's everyone else."

We took his Porsche.

The next argument involved who was going to drive.

"You just got off of work," I reminded him. "And when did you go on shift?"

"Last night at seven, but I'm fine."

"Not a chance. Give me the keys. I promise not to roll your shiny Porsche over. Wouldn't want you to have to buy a new one and improve their sales."

He handed me the keys.

The next argument involved the musical selection best-suited to ensure our listening pleasure during our journey.

"Driver's choice," I said. "Everyone knows that." _Everyone_ did know that. I might have been trying to follow the path of least resistance, but that didn't mean that I was going to put up with his bullshit.

"What the hell is this?" Edward asked.

_Oh, did he not like my music?_ Funny how that seemed to fill me with a teeny tiny sense of delight. I may have begun bobbing my head a bit more enthusiastically. "You're supposed to be asleep," I reminded him.

"I can't sleep through this."

I started shaking the hand that wasn't on the steering wheel like I was rattling a maraca. "It _is _pretty awesome," I admitted before I began singing along. "_Antique high heel red doll shoes_." I sobered. "What _Mister, I am a musical savant_, you don't like _Rasputina_?"

"I don't think this is music."

"I thought that you liked Classical. How do you not like a band made up of women playing the cello and named after Rasputin?"

"I don't hear any cellos in there."

"There _are_ cellos. Maybe not in this particular song, but elsewhere. As for your claims to musical sophistication, I say _ha!_ Ha!"

"Don't _ha!_ me. This is crap." Edward then tried to ban _Rasputina _from the car entirely. "My hair is literally standing up on the back of my neck. This is the creepiest song I've ever heard."

"I know, isn't it fantastic?" I trilled.

"No. No songs about dolls and black masses."

"What do _you_ consider Goth? _Marilyn Manson?_ Please. I bet you only like poppy, easy listening boring crap. I bet there's no real Goth on your mp3 player anywhere."

"Mp3 player? It'd called an iPod. And I'm not sure that Goth has any redeeming values."

"No redeeming values?! You mean other than the singular articulation of the sublime and the surreal in a maelstrom of played out cliché and trite emotions? Stuff that doesn't get played on the radio because the radio's for sheep. And FYI, Mr. Elitist, cheapskates like me don't use iPods. We buy mp3 players."

"Maybe it doesn't get played because it's crap."

"How is_ Ke$ha _not crap?"

Fast forward an hour, by which point we had moved onto other genres: "My _Fancy Pants_ ragtime Pandora station is the shit," I repeated for at least the third time.

"But you didn't pick the music on that station," Edward huffed, as if that was a valid criticism.

"What do you mean, I didn't pick the music? It's _geared_ to my musical tastes. I thumb things up and down and it learns what I like and gives me more stuff that I'll like. It's driven by what I want to listen to. Not like corporate sponsored radio that plays the same ten songs over and over again."

"I don't trust Pandora's algorithms. I want to see them for myself."

"Well, my station is awesome. In fact, all of my stations are awesome. This one is just the best."

"Are you just saying that because you like that it's called _Fancy Pants_?"

"N-no." I kind of did.

"Did you even know that there was a ragtime song called _Fancy Pants _before you heard it on Pandora?"

"That isn't the point. The point is that _I _like ragtime. And no one else likes ragtime. I was just sitting there one day, a little girl, watching _Alvin and the Chipmunks_, and the Chipette's foster mother started playing a song on the piano, and it was quite probably the greatest piano flourishings that I had ever heard, and I asked my grandmother _What is that noise? _and my grandmother, Buddha rest her soul, said it was ragtime, and I knew that I loved it."

"I play ragtime," Edward smirked.

I glanced quickly at him. "No you don't."

"I do. On my piano. It's my favorite."

"You're lying. There's no piano in your apartment."

"It's in the den."

"We were in the den," I reminded him.

"No, we were in the parlor."

I snapped my mouth shut and glared at the highway before us. _Who has a parlor anymore?_

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Edward and I were going to spend the night in a bed and breakfast in Port Angeles. Edward had made the reservations. We had both agreed that one night spent with our respective families that weekend was going to be more than enough.

It was pretty late when we pulled up to the bed and breakfast. I was happy they could accommodate such a late check-in.

"I put Mr. Cullen in the blue room," Mr. Crowley said, shuffling slowly up the stairs. I cocked an eyebrow at the décor and glanced at Edward who grinned back at me. Daguerreotypes and tinted sketches covered the red walls.

"I thought you would like it," Edward said.

"Yeah," I replied flatly. While it was true that I liked to _imagine_ that I lived in the eighteenth century, I didn't actually want to _live_ in the eighteenth century. Who knew a place like this was hiding in Port Angeles? I hoped that there was indoor plumbing.

Mr. Crowley led the way across the landing and opened a door into a very blue room.

"Wow," Edward marveled. "This is really blue." And it was. Aqua turquoise and periwinkle and robin's egg and every other color of the blue spectrum.

I gave Edward a withering glance.

"I like blue," he defended himself.

"And the red room for Miss Swan," Mr. Crowley said, opening the next door along the hallway.

"It's very red," I agreed.

"You're lucky to get it too," Mr. Crowley confided. "It's usually the room that goes first, and we're booked up solid you know."

"I'm sure red's very popular," I commented.

"It's mostly the ghosts I think," Mr. Crowley replied, his eyes darting to the corners of the so-called red room.

"The ghosts?"

"Oh yes, we're the most haunted bed and breakfast in Port Angeles."

_That was a thing?_

"We hold séances in this very room once a month," Mr. Crowley went on.

"That must bring in a lot of guests," Edward said conversationally.

Mr. Crowley smiled indulgently. "Yes, our ghosts are a lively bunch," he said before wishing us a good night and departing.

Edward walked over and knocked on the wall next to my bed. "Show yourself." _What the fuck?_ He looked around. "If you're really here, why don't you say something? Do something so that we know you're with us."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I spit.

He laughed at me. "Oh come on. Don't tell me that you buy this."

"I _don't _buy it," I huffed, throwing my duffel down.

"Seriously?"

"I _told _you that I don't believe in the supernatural."

"If you don't believe then what's the harm in a little table rapping?"

"Do that shit in your own room!"

"How can someone who reads horror all day be scared of ghosts?"

"I'm not fucking scared." I crossed my arms and glared at the mirror in the corner, the patina on the glass distorting my face grossly. Sometimes people read horror and watch horror movies because they are trying not to be afraid.

And it doesn't always work.

Acting as if he thought that I needed reassurance, Edward explained. "The human mind finds patterns in the patternless. It's what distinguishes us from monkeys. That's all it is." Like I didn't fucking know that already.

"Yeah well I have no interest in testing that. I say leave the unknown to the unknown."

Edward must have been more exhausted than I'd realized, because he started babbling. "There is no 'unknown' to leave it to because there's nothing to know." He came and stood in front of me. "Really, what's the worst that could happen?"

I shrugged. _My soul. Carted. Off. To. Hell._ Not that I believed in hell because I was an atheist, but if Pascal's wager justified belief in God then it definitely justified at least considering the possibility of a devil.

And I knew just what would be waiting for me in hell, too. The results if not the physical conditions of the _Roiling Abyss_ and the _Mountains of Madness_ on spin cycle. Dali on overdrive. Skin bare and melted, no boundaries, things untouched touched, one long scream that wasn't a scream because no scream could ever express that much sheer terror. No possibility of habituation.

There was nothing scarier than realizing that you were going crazy. And that's just what a paranormal experience would boil down to. Proof that I was insane. They'd lock me up next to Irene.

And for all my postering, someone who studied horror couldn't help believing, at least a little bit, that there might be something to it. Especially not with a mother like mine.

"You okay Bella?" Edward asked.

"I'm fine." I was still glaring at my face in the mirror, made so ugly by the distortion. I could see the side of Edward's face in the glass, and he wasn't looking very pretty either. Dali already getting his freak on.

Wanting to make sure that it was just a trick of the light, I turned to look at the real thing, and saw what looked like contrition in Edward's features.

He apologized. "I didn't know anything about this ghost stuff when I booked the rooms. I just thought it would be a nice way to thank you for helping me. You know, a slice of history."

"It's real historical."

"You want to switch rooms?"

_And let Edward think that I was the victim of superstitious fancies?_ Ha! "Why would I want to do that?" I looked around. "It _is_ very red," I said, deciding to focus on something somewhat more rational than the undead, "and I don't really like the color red, because it's so _red_. I'm more of a green person. Soothing. But there's no reason I can't sleep in a red room."

An hour later, I was sitting on top of the red covers on the cherry red bed in that very red room, the red walls of which were hung with more black and white daguerreotypes of the long since dead, in my flannel pajamas, clutching my cell phone with all of the lights blazing, a red sheet thrown over the mirror so that I could not see the way the red light reflected in swirls from the glass. The first peal of thunder sounded.

That was alright. I liked the rain. Loved it.

_Nothing better than a cozy storm._

…until the lights go out leaving you alone with the ghosts that you don't believe in.

A beat after the darkness descended, I was out of the door, standing in the hallway, beating on Edward's door, with the light of my phone casting a meager blue gleam around my face.

"Are you okay?" he asked when he opened the door, stepping aside to let me in.

"I'm fine," I told him, quickly raising my eyes from his chest, which I had noticed was bare. "I was just making sure that you were okay." At least he was wearing boxers.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"I don't know. Maybe you needed a light. Because maybe you wouldn't be able to find your cell phone in the dark and you might hurt yourself looking for it." To demonstrate my usefulness, I fiddled with my phone until the flashlight function came on. "See?" I shined it directly in Edward's eyes and he stumbled back a step, holding up a hand. I shined the light around the room. "Ah, there it is," I said, marching over to the night stand. "Your cell phone." I picked it up and flourished it in the air.

"Thanks," Edward took it from me.

There was a beat of silence. "So now that you have your cell phone, I'll just go back to my room." I turned towards the door.

"The electricity's off," Edward noted.

"Mmm hmm." I didn't bother to point out that he seemed to be a little slow on the uptake. Maybe he was still groggy.

"The heating looks pretty modern. Electric."

"It is?"

He nodded. "And if the electric's gone, it's going to get pretty cold."

"It's only October. It probably won't get that cold," I argued.

"But no reason to chance it."

"We could put on more clothes," I suggested. Of course he would have to put more clothes on than me, as he was currently wearing so little.

"We should probably also stay together, too. Conserve heat."

"I don't think that really works."

"It totally works." I noticed that Edward had reverted to his high school patois. Another sign of exhaustion. Maybe I was exhausted too. That would explain my childish behavior.

"No. I think it's an old wives tale."

"I'm a doctor. I know about these things."

I turned around and looked at the very blue bed. The blankets were all rumpled. The sheets were also blue. "There's only one bed."

"It's a big bed."

"I'm a kicker," I warned.

"I think I can take you."

**AN: **

**Rec: Seventeen Minutes by queenofthenile91 - **Seventeen minutes will now be forever known as the Forks High School Massacre. It only took seventeen minutes for a lone gunman to kill eleven students and two staff members as well as leave numerous others injured. It was only seventeen minutes, but its survivors have scars that will last a lifetime. Twilight - Rated: M - English - Hurt/Comfort/Drama - Chapters: 43 - Words: 153,686 - Reviews: 538 - Favs: 397 - Follows: 260 - - Complete

**If you're wondering why Bella's still hung up about something that happened ten years ago, check out queenofthenile91's story. She's got tons of facts and figures on the problem of bullying.**


	10. Chapter 10

**18Dec2014 – if you started reading on or after this date, you knew this was coming. **

**Otherwise, some explanation is called for: It occurred to me that a real gothic serial would be appearing in a newspaper or magazine in the midst of news articles and advertisements. And who am I to deny the people their slice of authenticity?**

**Meyers owns all.**

**FANFIC TIMES**

_All the news that the others won't print_

Letter to the Editor

Anonymous

The readers of _Fanfic Times _cannot have helped but to notice the recent addition to its pages of a certain fictional tale which is more than a little evocative of that seedy genre known as Gothic literature. While we applaud this paper's continued support of the arts, we must voice our concerns over the ghoulish nature of the story in question.

Consider the protagonist of this piece: One Isabella Marie Swan (Izzy, to her bullies). To the unassuming, she is like any other run-of-the-mill Bella. But probe more deeply, and you will find that she exhibits signs of antisocial behavior which, to modern mainstream sensibilities, is entirely inappropriate. Among other things, Bella exhibits a marked unwillingness to discuss matters in which we are most interested. This is rude and discourages the development of any friendly feelings to which we might be inclined. Doesn't she want us to like her? Bellas in other fanfics (_Hit by Destiny_ for instance) suffer far more serious childhood trauma (which is described in delightfully excruciating detail) and yet they come out sweet and gentle. This Bella seems to take it personally that no one likes her. Why should they? She's mean.

Whatever justification this Bella might have for her indifference and hostility is unfairly kept from the reader by Bella's unwillingness to come clean about her past, specifically about just what went down in high school. Bella asserts that such details are not interesting. But we beg to differ. This is the very thing we want most to know. It is all well and good to ask a person to wait until the end of a story to find out the name of a killer, but there is no reason that we should have to wait to find out anything about how Bella ticks. Isn't she the one telling the story? Can't she just tell us? Repression _is_ suggestive of trauma, but we think that we should be the judges of whether or not the events in question were truly traumatic. Art, after all, is suffering. And Bella's the one who reads the Marquis de Sade. Who is she to scold us?

We propose that the following course of action be immediately carried out (in the story, that is): Bella is to confront Edward with the details of their shared history (discussing these details at great length), secure his apology, and work with him to resolve any lingering hostility posthaste. That such a confrontation at this stage of their relationship would be unlikely to happen in real life—because a person suffering anxiety is unlikely to confront anything head-on and because all of the evidence that Bella's collected up to this point on one Edward Cullen suggests that no such action on her part would actually produce an apology from him and because apologies are just words that mean nothing—is hardly an impediment to the satisfaction of the readers' desires on this point.

We believe that our proposal is key to the emergence of a kinder, gentler Bella. A Bella who doesn't listen to _Rasputina_. We would very much like to read about _that _Bella solving the mystery of who killed that whore Tanya. And we would be more concerned for her well-being when a dead animal showed up on her doorstep too. As of right now, we kind of think she deserves it.

In conclusion, a change of genre is in order. Gothic literature is morbid and depressing. However, delectable exposés of a heroine's suffering, followed by her romantic triumph, now _that_ is something we can get on board with.

We hope that you will voice your opinion in agreeing with our proposal to change the genre of this story to rom-com. Allowing the tale to proceed along its current trajectory is tantamount to suggesting that deviants have a right to their way of life. We would very much prefer that they be just like us instead.

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**Just who IS Bella Swan?**

What secrets lurk beneath the surface?

When will she confront Edward with the truth of his crimes?

When will she realize that her fucking life is in danger?

**Finding the killer is only the **_**first **_**mystery…**

**Read "Gothic" by author-self-insert**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**Murder of Local Girl Still Unsolved**

By Ambrose Bierce

A decade after the brutal slaying of a local girl, police are still baffled. Tanya Denali was pretty, well-liked, and headed for college. She had everything going for her until she disappeared one afternoon in a silver Volvo. Now, in an attempt to bring her killer to justice, we have appealed to the public for any theories they might have. Here is what they have to say about the list of suspects, followed by a timeline of the murder:

**Edward**

Alibi – Bella saw him in the woods at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya had just cheated on him

**Jasper**, Edward's friend

Alibi – was supposedly in Texas at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: Capricorn75 "Jasper did it! Okay, no reason for saying that, I'm just naming my suspect early on. Calling shotgun, if you will." Nov19

\- Nay: Cared "I don't suspect Jasper or Alice" 18Nov

**Alice**

Alibi – was supposedly in Mississippi at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Alice's high school years such a torment

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest on 14Nov

\- Nay: Cared "I don't suspect Jasper or Alice" 18Nov

**Bella**

Alibi – Saw Edward in the woods at the time of the murder (…but no one saw her, did they?)

Motive – 1. Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Bella's high school years such a torment. 2. Plot to destroy Edward's traitorous girlfriend and swoop in to save Edward from prosecution, all in a desperate gamble to make Edward like her (really? desperate much!)

\- Yay: I remember someone saying that they suspected her but couldn't find the review when I went back through them

**Mike** **Newton**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

**Jessica**, Tanya's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

**Lauren**, Tanya's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

**Eric**

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Eric's high school years such a torment.

**James**, Edward and Jasper's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – Does he need one? Everyone hates James. Except, of course, the people who flip the script and make him the hero of their ffn.

Votes:

\- Yay: Angelari7 "James maybe?" 31Oct, cejsmom "my money is on James" 19Nov, 2brown-eyes "possible foreshadowing…James perhaps?" 18Nov, GorGirl "I bet it was James" 25Nov

**Felix Manning**, had sex with Tanya, mechanic at the place where Tanya's father took his cars

Alibi – ?

Motive – ?

**Demitri Giampetroni**, had sex with Tanya, brother of waitress who is the last person to see Tanya alive

Alibi – ?

Motive – ?

**Carlisle**

Alibi – Was in Seattle at the time of the murder with his wife (of course, you will recall that spouses can't be compelled to testify…)

Motive – Was he one of the men that Tanya was having an affair with?

Votes:

\- Yay: LRK860 "You have me wondering about Carlisle. Didn't Edward say his parents wanted him to date Tanya, why? Small town gossip surely would have zoomed in on her at some point. Or a good visit to the good doctor because of an STD scare." 20Nov

**Mike Newton's father**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Grocery store manager**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Gas station attendant**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Aro Denali**

Alibi – ?

Motive – Psycho (poor Tanya)

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "Her sisters knew an awful lot about her sexual exploits, what about Daddy? How long were the girls sitting in the coffee shop, who came to get them" 20Nov, CindyWindy1 "Mr. Denali makes a fine suspect. Acting unhinged and irrationally angry now, and in the past he threatened to horrifically murder high school aged Bella." 27Nov

**Unknown serial killer**

Alibi - ?

Motive – Psycho serial killer who just happened to have short red hair and drive a car that looked like Edward's

**Someone from La Push**, it wouldn't be fair to leave them out

Alibi – Just about everyone was at First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – 1. Maybe Tanya found that pirate gold that's supposed to be buried in La Push (yes, I was serious about this. If _Oak Island_ can have its own show, then I can have pirate gold at La Push). 2. Needed to hide fact that they'd had sex with Tanya.

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "What about the boys on the reservation? Who did she sleep with from there?" 20Nov

**Police**, maybe just some of them or all of them (ugh?)

Alibi – ?

Motive – They were having sex with Tanya

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "WHY didn't the police investigate further, did Tanya sleep with some of them?" 20Nov

**Wives and girlfriends of everyone who Tanya had sex with**

Alibi – ?

Motive – They were having sex with her

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "I've got no clue where to begin to whittle down possible suspects who wanted Tanya dead. Lots of wives and girlfriends, for sure." 20Nov (yes this is the same guest who cast the other votes noted for this day – he/she was ON FIRE!)

**Vampire**, seen by Irene going in and out of Tanya's room

Alibi – Vampires don't exist (supposedly)

Motive – An insatiable thirst for life-blood

Votes:

\- Yay: Roxiegirl "sounds like a vampire to me LOL"

**Jack the Ripper**, I just felt like adding him, though in his defense, he probably would have taken some organs

Alibi – He would have to be really, really old

Motive – Penchant for women of ill repute

**Author-self-insert**, inspired by sharkjumper

Alibi – Making author-self-insert the killer would require avant-garde maneuvers of a kind multiple reviewers would object to and is therefore unthinkable (or is it?). Besides, I'm clearly Bella, which according to some of you makes me a crazy bitch (but I'm trying not to take that personally).

Motive – Psycho

**Timeline **

Bella claims that, sometime after lunch (how vague is that? let's hope that she was more specific with the police), she drove to the west end pass of the park, leaving her car in the last turn off and started to hike into the woods.

2 pm Tanya drove to Port Angeles with her sisters, Irina and Kate, to go shopping.

2 pm Edward had a fight with his parents as the latter were leaving for the weekend. His parents drove away in their car. Edward immediately exited out of the back of his house, heading for a trail that met up with the edge of his parent's property and led up into the national park. He made a nineteen mile hike to the top of the blue trail and spent the afternoon in the meadow.

Bella claims that a few hours after she started her hike (vague again!), she saw Edward in the meadow at the end of the blue trail. She waited a few minutes, thinking that he was going to leave, but he stayed. She double-backed and went up the white trail, and sat on the rocks overlooking the bluff for about an hour.

4 pm Tanya left her sisters in a coffee shop, telling them that she was going to run back to a store to purchase a pair of shoes she'd changed her mind about buying. She never made it to the shoe store.

4:15 pm Tanya was seen by a waitress getting into a silver Volvo in front of Bella Italia. The driver had short red hair.

4:15 – approximately 5 pm, a person or persons unknown drove Tanya to a cabin in the outskirts of Port Angeles. Tanya entered the cabin of her own volition or was carried in. Blows delivered to Tanya's head prior to her death were sufficient to render victim unconscious and are consistent with being struck several times by the driver of car while she was seated in the passenger seat.

Approximately 5 pm, a person or persons unknown made several incisions in the creases behind Tanya's elbows and knees, as well as the neck and inner thigh, all at points where significant blood loss could be expected.

Approximately 5:15 pm Tanya expired.

6:30 pm police responded to an anonymous phone call originating from a pay phone in Forks to find Tanya deceased in the cabin just outside of Port Angeles.

Bella claims that she went back to the meadow. Edward was still there. She hiked back to her truck. It was already dark by the time she made it to the turn off where she'd parked.

9:07 pm sunset.

Edward claims that it was already dark by the time he made it home.

**AN: WHO DO YOU THINK DID IT AND WHY? ****How did he/she pull it off? Was it a cabal of killers?**

**Let me know if you don't want me to give your username.**

**My apologies if you sent me a suspect prior to Nov 26, and I missed it when skimming the reviews to prepare this. Please PM me and I'll add your vote!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you to The Lemonade Stand for the recommendation!**

**Two chapters posted at once: Suspect list and consolidated timeline in the previous chapter.**

**Confession: I added a few lines to the end of the chapter that I posted last week (where Bella expresses her concerns about her hotel room) a few hours after it was posted to try and explain Bella's behavior a bit more. My apologies if you'd already read it but, as it was pointed out to me, it was weak. I hope you think it's improved.**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 9

'_The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.' – Oscar Wilde_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, our heroine was caught off guard by a most unexpected invitation to join a certain gentleman in his bed…_

"I'm probably a biter too," I cautioned Edward.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem."

"I don't like sharing blankets."

"We can get the blankets from your bed and bring them back here."

I gaped at him. But the absurdity of the situation was simply too much. I shook my head as though it would help to dispel my confusion. It didn't. So I decided to act as though it were all in jest. I laughed shakily. "Very funny. I'm sorry for waking you up. Or disturbing you. Or whatever." And dropping my head to hide my face, I scurried back to my room.

A few minutes later, I heard knocking on my door. It was Edward.

"What are you doing?" he asked, glancing at my bed, which was covered with papers and books, my laptop open and glowing on the nightstand. He'd thrown on a t-shirt.

"Just some research," I told him.

"You brought all of these books with you?"

"I didn't know which one I would feel like reading when I got here. What did you think was taking up all of that room in my bag?"

He shrugged. "Make-up."

I gazed at Edward dubiously. _Make-up? Me?_

"Aren't you tired?" he asked.

"Not really," I lied.

"Well, if you're going to be staying up anyway, why don't we go back to my room and discuss the case?"

"Now?"

"Might as well. Unless you really need to get this done." Edward waved a hand at the pile on my bed.

It seemed like a set-up to me, but I was too tired and uneasy—my nerves still very much on edge in that very red room with its reputation for ghostly inhabitants, even if I didn't believe in them—and nothing but violent and disturbing prose to distract me, not the sort of stuff to calm a troubled soul, especially when read by the meager light of a cell phone. And if Edward really did have something worth talking about then we might as well get it out of the way, since there was no chance that I would be going to sleep any time soon.

Edward started gathering up the books and dropping them on the bureau as I powered down the laptop.

"You don't have to do that," I told him.

"No problem," he said, pulling the red comforter off of the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't want you to be cold."

My old self would have been more suspicious. Had I been in my right mind, I would have refused. The Edward Cullen who, on more than one occasion, had chanted _Lesbo _as I'd passed in the cafeteria and had been used to saying so many other mocking things to me would only have had nefarious reasons for an invitation like this.

But I didn't have time to think very carefully about any of that as I stood there watching Edward carry my blanket away. It wasn't until the next day, in the full light of morning, that I realized the complete absurdity of my behavior at this juncture, and the realization made me want to drown myself in the shower. At the time of his invitation, however, as I cast uneasy glances into the shadowy corners of that darkened room—plagued, as it supposedly was, by so many ghosts—I wasn't myself. Blame it on the pressure of circumstances. The utter strangeness of the situation. I didn't quite understand what was happening, so I did what I always did in such situations, and kept my mouth shut while waiting to see what would happen next.

Edward led the way back to his room, pushed his own blue comforter out of the way, and dropped mine on the other side of the bed.

"You want me in your bed?" I asked stupidly, gazing at the lone chair in the room, a delicate wicker assembly that looked like it would crumple under my weight. There was a chair in my room. But it was just as fragile.

"No reason not to be comfortable."

I stood there for a minute, knowing that I should really just go back to my room, where I would spend the rest of the night huddled in bed with my cell phone and laptop.

I looked down at my phone, checking the battery. Ten percent.

I would be like the little match girl.

And when the light died…

"I don't believe in ghosts," I reminded him as I perched carefully on the edge of his bed.

"I remember," Edward said, handing me one of his pillows.

"If you had my mother, you would understand," I explained, feeling like some sort of defense was in order. I wrapped myself in the red blanket and sat against the headboard, trying to take up as little room as possible, huddling close to the edge of the mattress. I felt the bed dip as Edward settled in, lying down, I noticed, not sitting up like me. Didn't he want to discuss the case?

I wondered if he thought that I was as foolish as I felt. _It doesn't matter,_ I tried to tell myself. _He already thinks you're an idiot. _But I thought that there had to be some way to salvage the situation. "She-said-that-a-ghost-picked-me-up-out-of-my-crib-once-and-dropped-me-on-the-floor," I confessed quickly.

"What?"

"She said that a ghost picked me up out of my crib and dropped me on the floor. It just happened the one time though."

Edward didn't reply. I had probably made it even worst.

I decided that more explanation was needed. "But another time, a ghost threatened to kill me."

"Threatened to _kill_ you?"

"In a dream. My mother had a dream about a little girl who'd disappeared from the apartment where we were living, and the girl's father told my mother that he was going to kill me, because he was afraid that his daughter was going to come home and see me and think that he'd replaced her. So we moved."

"What the fuck?" I could feel Edward shifting on the bed next to me.

"I don't believe in ghosts though."

"How old were you when she told you that crap?"

"I don't know. I remember that I was four when we moved out of that apartment. Um, I'm sure that I knew before we moved, because I remember looking out the window and wondering if the girl's father had also stood there looking for his daughter. And then—" I stopped. I remembered frightening myself with the notion of the girl's father pushing me out of the window. I had run away and hid behind the couch. "She must have told me about the crib when I was older." I remembered whole weeks when I didn't sleep more than a few hours. Being left alone while my mother was at work or on a date, my eyes darting around the living room as I sat huddled on the couch where I slept, every light in the place on and the tv blaring. Never feeling safe, not even in the middle of the day, but afraid to go outside as well, where I might at least play with kids my age, because Renee had said that there were pedophiles in the parks and that the parents of all of my classmates were probably pedophiles too, so I shouldn't play with my classmates either, not even at school, since they might try to do something inappropriate to me, just like their parents.

Not being one to shirk her responsibilities, Renee would describe for me in lurid detail exactly what a pedophile was and how they liked to hurt little girls.

Alice had been my first real friend and I didn't meet her until I was fourteen, when my mother married Phil and sent me to Forks.

"What kind of mother says that kind of shit to their kid?" Edward asked.

"She said that she could protect me," I explained, thinking to myself that this promise of hers wasn't much good when she left me alone most of the time.

Realizing that what I'd said didn't make sense, I went on. "With her personal power or spiritual energy or something, but she said that I didn't have enough, personal power that is, so I needed her, which I know is bullshit. But I was a stupid kid. She would make me go with her to all of her theosophy or whatever meetings, and they would tell us to put our hands over our heads and feel the energy rushing around, and I never felt anything, so I thought that there was something wrong with me. I remember, one of the spiritualists once started yelling at someone in the group. She was telling him to get out. I realized later that he must have been making fun of her or something, but I thought she was yelling at me, because she could tell that there wasn't any energy around me and that I was empty."

"A bunch of crackpots were making bullshit up and you thought that there was something wrong with you?"

I felt like I was being unfair. "I don't know. Maybe it works for some people and not others. I've got an open mind. I don't believe in ghosts because I've never seen one. But I don't _want_ to see one either. Does that make sense? It's kind of cowardly isn't it?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts, so no, it's not cowardly."

"I think you're biased. Blinded by science."

"Yeah, the scientific method is all about ignoring results."

It was clear by now that Edward had no intention of discussing Tanya. I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing in that bed next to him, but I didn't have the energy to ponder that just then.

I rested my head against the headboard and closed my eyes, pretending for a moment that sitting in a very red blanket in a very blue room in a creepy bed and breakfast next to Edward Cullen wasn't in the least bit out of the ordinary.

"Maybe we should just go to sleep," Edward suggested. "Discuss the case tomorrow."

I started to get up.

"I didn't mean that you should leave," Edward said, reaching out a hand to arrest my movement. "I'm not that tired, you know. We can discuss the case."

"That's stupid," I said, leaning back against the headboard and ignoring the fact that he didn't want me to go back to my room. "You've been up for more than twenty-four hours. It doesn't make sense that doctors, of all people, do that kind of stuff."

"It's not that bad."

"Blurred vision. Dizzy spells. Slurring. Nausea."

"Says the voice of experience."

"I had trouble sleeping when I was a kid."

Edward snorted. "I'm not surprised, with a mother like that."

I hummed.

"Do you see her anymore?" he asked.

"No. Not since right after Tanya died."

"What happened?"

"We had a fight."

"So you had a fucked up childhood. But you got over it and now you study horror. Makes sense. You deal with the shit your mom pulled by studying horror and Jack the Ripper."

"I don't study Jack the Ripper." I looked over at Edward, even though I couldn't see him very well in the dark. "And anyhow, what's with the psychoanalysis?"

A flash of lightening showed me that Edward was turned on his side, facing me. "Just calling it how I see it." Another flash of lightening cast a glow across his features. His eyes were on me.

"I don't psychoanalyze you," I warned him, "so you don't psychoanalyze me."

"Go ahead," he encouraged. "Psychoanalyze me."

I shook my head. "It would be too easy."

"Shall I?" he asked.

"Be my guest," I told him.

Edward rattled off his self-diagnosis: "Unresolved guilt complex and borderline obsessive compulsive personality with a healthy dose of masochism. Driven to work grueling hours at a job he hates to punish himself for the crimes of his youth."

"You forgot narcissism," I corrected him.

"I'm not a narcissist."

"You are. And you have sadly provincial tastes in music. That must reflect a psychosis of some sort. Extreme narrow-mindedness or something."

"How am I a narcissist?"

"You've turned Tanya's death into something that's all about you."

"It is about me."

"You're not the one who died," I reminded him.

"You agree with everyone else? You think that I should just get over it? Forget that someone tried to set me up?"

"I think that when we don't make any progress, and I tell you it's over, that you should give up."

He was silent for a moment. "I'm just supposed to hand the decision over to you?"

"Yep."

I could tell that he was shaking his head.

I explained. "I'm not going to say that Tanya wouldn't want you to give up your life for her. She was a selfish bitch and she would have wanted just that. No, she didn't deserve to die." Despite what Eric said. "But sometimes stuff just happens. You put a lid on it and lock it down."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. There are rules. You need to function." It occurred to me that Edward was just as fucked up as Eric. Not letting go of the past.

"I function."

"You planning on having that family? You plan on getting that private practice? Because last I checked, you wanted those things. So if you aren't working on getting them, then no, you're not functioning. Because your definition of functioning isn't what you've got."

I slid down on the bed a few inches, not quite lying down.

It occurred to me that, for all I knew, Edward was working on getting that family. He could very well have a steady girlfriend and I wouldn't even know it.

Several minutes passed before he spoke again. "What about you? Are you functioning?" he asked me.

"Absolutely," I told him. "I've got everything I want." And I told myself that it was true.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I did not sleep well in that bed next to Edward. How could I?

How could I sleep at all, that is? How could I let myself even sit there next to him?

I told myself that it was just to see what would happen, as though I was an anthropologist watching a chimpanzee in the wild, covertly observing Edward as he settled in for the night. _The ape-man tucks himself in, succumbing to that evolutionary instinct that has kept hominids safe from the nighttime terrors all these millions of years_. Didn't he know that he was tucking himself into bed right next to one of his sworn enemies? Was he really so arrogant that he didn't realize the risk he was running?

I scoffed at my idiocy. What risk was he really running? What could I possibly do to him?

And what was I afraid that he would do to me?

Were this some nonsensical teenage farce, Edward would have arranged for the lights to go out, so that he could carry out an attempted seduction (_attempted_, because of course I would not give in!), all of it captured on a hidden video camera (no doubt my resistance would provide for as much hilarity as his feigned endearments). Such intrigues, of course, were entirely out of the question.

Perhaps _I _ought to have been the animal under study in this situation. Slave to irrational fears. The fear of Edward Cullen, on the one hand, and the fear of my mother's ghost stories, on the other hand. What a child!

Why did I read all those ghost stories if not to try and overcome my mother's influence? So why not try to harden myself to Edward, and face my fear there too?

I let myself slide down the bed an inch.

Why had Edward invited me to his room? To his bed? It was a fucking slumber party, for crying out loud, hardly the work of a fiend. It was something Seth would do, but Seth was Seth.

Edward's motives were entirely inscrutable. So I watched his patch of darkness wearily, as if mere observation would prove fruitful. But I was too tired and his behavior was too strange for me to explain. The situation was too surreal.

_Perhaps I am already asleep_, I thought. _And all of this is a dream._

To be sure, I felt myself begin to drift in and out of consciousness.

Every so often, I would jolt awake, afraid that I'd shifted a fraction of an inch towards Edward or that he'd shifted a fraction of an inch towards me or that I'd committed some other egregious act like talking in my sleep, which I had never done before as far as I knew.

My sleep was far from restful.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Jerking awake to find that my dying cell read six thirty a.m., I determined that the time had come to make a graceful exit.

At some point during the night, the power had come back on and a light was shining dimly through several layers of blue beads and taffeta from a lamp on Edward's side of the bed. It was just enough to see by as I carefully rose and tried to tip toe out of the room.

"I like your pajamas," I heard a snicker behind me.

So much for a smooth exit. Glancing over my shoulder, I chastised him. "And I'd say that I like yours—oh, but you're not wearing any, are you?"

"I think that you like them just fine," Edward replied, throwing his very blue blanket to the side and patting his abs, his t-shirt having risen up, not that I was looking closely enough to observe the general state of his stomach. Or his chest. Or arms. Or…anything else for that matter.

"Ha!" I snapped, turning quickly away.

"You may say _ha!_ but I see you the way you look at me."

I let the sound of the door closing behind me serve as my response. Eric would have been so disappointed.

I saved the berating for my shower. _What the fuck did you do?_ I asked myself, scrubbing my skin a bit more furiously than was probably needed.

Just because I'd no desire to rehash the past didn't mean that I couldn't recall the feelings of isolation and melancholy, the outright despair, that Edward Cullen's past behavior had once helped to evoke.

I pushed away the actual details of what had happened ten years ago, but the sense of dread remained. Did it matter exactly how he'd phrased this or that statement of ridicule once upon a time? No. Banal put-downs. It wasn't interesting. Understanding human psychology wasn't like a murder mystery. People were irrational. Memories could be faked. So only emotions mattered, not details.

The last time someone had tried to bring it up with me—when I'd gone to Alice's group to show my support—I'd walked out in a huff of anger. What good would it do to talk about how much he and everyone else had once hurt me? And anyhow, he hadn't been entirely wrong in his assessment of me either. Everything he'd said back then had been true. It was much better to come to terms with the truth, with the fact that I was utterly unfit for society, than to try and force myself into a mold that I'd never fit.

So I'd walked out of Alice's group. I'd told myself that only Freudians and people who watched too much reality television thought that it was worth plumbing the details of one's past anguish, and really it was just for their own twisted amusement, because dwelling on it certainly did nothing to help a person in the here and now. It just encouraged the repetition of old cycles of depression. My own historical analyses certainly never strayed towards the psychoanalytical. I shied away from biographies—the notion that anyone could ever pretend to truly know another person. I preferred to diagnose my subjects _en masse._ I certainly would never be caught trying to explain Victorian sadomasochism with premature weaning or other mundane childhood traumas, for once the door to that had been thrown open, there would be no end to it. After all, when trying to explain the antisocial behavior of a grown woman, why stop with the broken heart she suffered as a teenaged girl when there were also the questions of what cereal she'd had for breakfast that morning and the age at which she'd been potty-trained? As a historian I could hardly deny that memory mattered, but the desire to reminisce ought not be indulged too much, lest one descend into the maudlin naval-gazing narcissism of a Proust.

And why did everyone think that repression was such a bad thing? It served a purpose. It helped one carry on when there was no logical reason for doing so.

In any case, it only counted as repression if I let it dictate my present, right? And I wasn't letting it dictate the present, was I?

_I had slept in Edward Cullen's motherfucking bed!_

I would simply have to repress the memory of that too. There was no other choice.

Having made my decision, I resolutely steeled my jaw and finished my shower.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Mr. Crowley apologized for the loss of electricity and hoped that we had not been inconvenienced. Edward laughed and said that the inn ought to offer a loss of electricity as standard service. I deemed it best to say nothing.

We ate at the bed and breakfast, Mr. Crowley serving biscuits and porridge on aged dishes that I eyed skeptically.

"Who's Ib nal-deen?" Edward asked, sipping his coffee from a ridiculously dainty tea cup.

"Who?"

"Ib nal-deen?"

I had no idea. _Ib nal-deen. Ib nal-deen._ "Do you mean Ibn al-Nadim?"

Edward shrugged. "Sounds right. Who's that?"

"Ninth century Arab book collector. Why?"

"You kept saying his name last night."

"_What?"_ I could feel my cheeks flaming.

"You kept mumbling his name in your sleep." Edward was studying me carefully.

"I did _not._"

"You did." Edward started grinning. "Do you have a crush on a ninth century book collector?"

"Of course not." It was preposterous. I pressed my hands against my cheeks, trying to cool the skin. "We don't even know what he really looked like."

"You do. You have a crush on a guy who's been dead for twelve hundred years!"

"Shut up." _You sleep with a guy one time—_by accident!—_and he thinks that you're best friends._

"How does something like that even work? I mean, there's virtual sex but this has got to be pushing the limit."

"He loved books," I said, feeling that this was explanation enough. "_Loved_ them." I sighed. "You could rent a book stall and spend all night with the books by yourself. Utterly alone, to read at your leisure." My shoulders rose in an involuntary shiver of excitement.

"Wow. You really take your books seriously." Edward leaned towards me in a conspiratorial fashion. "Do you think about him when you—"

"I don't care to discuss this topic any further," I interrupted primly, patting the lace napkin against my lips.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Edward took the wheel of the Porsche when we left the bed and breakfast. He drove through the center of town, and turned down the street for _Bella Italia_, glancing at the clock as we passed. "The police timed it a couple of times. And I've timed it myself. It's just a twenty minute drive. Fifteen if you aren't being careful."

I didn't have to ask to know that he was referring to the time it took to get from _Bella Italia_ to the cabin where they'd found Tanya's body.

The scenery we passed had an almost surreal quality. It was one of those crisp autumn days when the sunlight sparkles through the leaves, setting them on fire with shades of crimson and mahogany. Port Angeles prided itself on being a rustic tourist town, and I thought that it looked its best during this time of year, with the quaint old-fashioned shop fronts and dignified architecture lending an antiquated feel.

The picturesque streets soon gave way to tree-lined sidewalks, and then there was just the open road between two red-gold walls of trees.

After a while, the road narrowed to no more than a gravel path, so covered in leaves that it would have been easy to think that the road had actually dead-ended. But Edward kept going, the Porsche shimmying over the loose gravel under the carpet of leaves as the trees on either side crept closer and closer. By the time that the cabin appeared, branches were scratching at either side of the vehicle.

Edward stopped the car in the small clearing in front of a cabin of ramshackle construction. It was a poor man's Queen Anne. The decadence of accretions born of necessity and want rather than excessive wealth. A timeworn well stood to one side of the clearing with a broken cap over the top, and a dilapidated fence wall could be seen through the stand of trees on the other side.

I stared at the tiny cabin. "Why hasn't someone torn it down?" I asked.

"It's actually a historic landmark. Or someone's trying to turn it into one. They're trying to turn this whole area into a park, but that got held up ten years ago and it's been in limbo ever since. The Denalis want it demolished."

"Who owns it now?"

"The city of Port Angeles. They don't want anything to do with it but they don't want the responsibility for destroying a landmark either. They're trying to get the state to take it over."

I watched the wind stir the trees through the window of the car.

I didn't want to get out.

"We can just turn around and go back," Edward offered.

"No." I reached for the door handle. "I'm fine."

I got out of the Porsche and slowly approached the cabin, my arms crossed in front of my chest in a gesture that I knew showed my discomfort, my eyes scanning the two broken windows in the front of the cabin and the trees lining the clearing.

This stretch of woods was just so far out of the way. Did the remains of other cabins stand in the surrounding woods? Or had this cabin always been sitting in the hinterland, the inhabitants shunned by society or, if not shunned, nevertheless wanting nothing to do with it?

I had never been very social. I hated crowds and easily tired of company. It was no accident that I fit in so poorly when I moved to Forks. Were it not for the carefully crafted rules that I now used to govern my social interaction, I might be totally isolated.

Could I ever live alone in a cabin like this? A century and a half ago, when urban development was even more remote, with no one around for miles and only a horse, if I could afford one, to cover the distance?

I thought back to the _Mountains of Madness_—not high school, when I was surrounded by people and only wanted to be alone—no, I thought back to those first two years of college when _I _was the one shunning everyone else, speaking to almost no one and keeping to myself. I remembered staying up all night to read and falling asleep in class. I remembered jagged shards like dreams skittering in the light and the gaps in between. If Alice hadn't come back to the west coast, who knows what would have happened to me? Had she not been crazier—yes, crazier—than me, who is to say that I wouldn't have broken completely? But she needed me to take care of her.

A movement behind me startled me, and I scuttled to the side. I hadn't noticed Edward drawing up alongside.

"The door's padlocked," he said. "But we should be able to see through the windows."

I followed him up to the nearest corner of the cabin, where a single worn shutter hung from a hinge. Edward peered through a pane of the glass, then stepped aside to let me do the same.

Not thinking about the ramifications of what I was doing, I leaned towards the dirty glass and looked. I expected to see the same image that I'd seen captured on the crime scene photos, but I hadn't the benefit of the fluorescent light bulbs that they'd used to take those photos or a clear view. At least, I thought that I should be able to see the stain on the floor where her blood had pooled. Maybe there was still a stain, and I just couldn't see it in the murky light, but it seemed wrong somehow that I couldn't see it, like everyone was somehow mistaken and this wasn't really the place where a teenage girl had died, because how could something so awful have happened without leaving any traces behind?

We went around to all of the windows. Two in the front, one on each side, and none in the back. It was a single room cabin. Plain and unfurnished. Repairs made to the siding and the roof in mismatched timbers and styles.

I wondered when the cabin had last been occupied, but didn't want to ask. Then I decided that I was being foolish and asked anyhow, my voice grating in the chill air. The kind of air that I usually loved.

"1967," Edward said. "It was abandoned and the city foreclosed."

"There must be parties here," I observed. _What an awful thing to say._ "I mean, kids must like to come here. Or they used to, didn't they?"

Edward nodded. "I even came here with Tanya once. The padlock was a joke back then. It got broken so many times that they stopped replacing it after a while."

The padlocked looked fine now. Had the teenagers stopped coming?

If anything, I would have thought that the gruesome aura of death and murder would have drawn them in.

Were the youth of Forks and Port Angeles actually capable of showing some respect?

Then what was I doing here? Playing the part of a ghoul.

Scanning the trees again, I imagined teenagers cavorting around the trunks, flashlights illuminating their flesh as they spun around in the night to some wild chant.

If I hadn't known about Tanya, if I hadn't known what happened to her in this cabin, would I still have felt so very uncomfortable standing there?

I didn't believe in ghosts. It was nonsense to think that I would have noticed anything untoward about that stretch of trees. Otherwise, the whole world would be haunted with everyone who's ever come and gone.

And yet. And yet.

I hated it—I hated it there I hated the trees I hated the cabin I hated the arch over the well and the broken cap I hated the wind I could hear rustling in the dried leaves I hated the flash of sunlight on the exposed window panes I hated the cobwebs I spied through the glass I hated the damp smell of the air. I hated it all. I just hated.

I followed Edward back to the Porsche, and he carefully turned it around before proceeding down the tree-lined avenue. I watched the cabin disappear from sight in the side-view mirror, then kept watching, as if I was worried about something following us.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

We had lunch at a small café a few blocks from _Bella Italia_. The café was almost empty and we sat by the window.

"I shouldn't have insisted you see it," Edward apologized.

I shrugged. "It was just a cabin." I didn't want to talk about it. Couldn't we just sit in silence? Fuck the rules of etiquette. I just wanted quiet. The kind of quiet that I only got to enjoy when I was alone. Couldn't we just have that?

"So what looks good to you?" Edward asked, trying to cheer me up I could tell.

I put down the menu. "Soup."

"I'll bet the soup is good here. Maybe I'll try that too."

I shook my head.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I told him.

"You're upset."

"I _should _be upset. If I wasn't upset, that would mean that there's something wrong with me."

"I just thought that if you saw it, maybe you would realize why it's so important. Be just as invested as I am."

I didn't say anything.

"I've been there so many times," Edward confessed. "I've forgotten how unnerving it can be."

It made sense. He wanted to shock me into caring. Strip away the cavalier disregard with which I'd been treating Tanya's death.

"Please talk to me," he pleaded.

"There's nothing to say," I replied.

"Yell at me or something. Don't just sit there staring out the window."

"Why would I be angry? It's not your fault. What happened was terrible."

"Still, having to see it up close isn't easy," Edward conceded.

"I should see it up close. I should see it first-hand. Don't you think if people weren't so insulated, that they would do more to stop things like that from happening?" I watched people milling on the sidewalk through the window. Cars crawling down the thoroughfare.

"I think people will keep doing awful things to each other no matter what."

"Then what's the point?"

"I don't know."

At least he didn't bother lying.

I continued. "And what about people who watch horror movies for entertainment? Who think murder mysteries are fun? What do you do with all of us?"

"Do you really think it's just entertainment?"

"I think—" I paused. "I think that I watch horror movies because it's comforting. There's a kind of comfort to the misery. I think, _This is as bad as it can be_. But that's not true. It can be worse. It can be real."

"You're not a serial killer."

"How do you know? Don't I get off on the same things? Maybe it's all just sublimation so that I don't go Lizzy Borden. Isn't that what you all thought? That I was crazy and weird? Well, I am. So I don't eat animals because I could never kill one myself, but if someone tried to hurt me, I'd fight back. And I read stories about monsters that don't exist while the monsters that do exist are left to roam the streets. It could be me. I could go nuts—"

"Stop it. I don't think that you could ever hurt someone."

I laughed. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know that even though you hated me, you saved me—" Edward said, not letting me cut him off. "That's exactly what you did, you saved me. And even though you should still hate me, you've agreed to do this with me."

"I don't have any friends," I argued.

"You have Alice. And I've heard her talk about other friends you have."

"They put up with me."

"I'm sure they have a very good reason."

"I barely function—"

"Last night you said that you function very well."

"I said that I function. I didn't say that I function very well."

"You're a celebrated teacher and author."

I laughed again. "I'm an adjunct professor whose position could get cut at any minute and my book sold about ten copies."

"Eleven. I bought one the other day."

I was dumbfounded. "I wish you hadn't. It's not very good." I felt uncomfortable, imagining him reading my words and judging what I'd written. "Why would you do something like that?"

"I want to know what you're interested in. I haven't finished it yet. But the introduction, well the beginning of the introduction was very enlightening. I feel much better informed about the Reformation now."

"It's not really about the Reformation."

"I distinctly recall reading something about the Reformation. And you know, you're free to return the favor. Come down to the hospital and observe me any time."

"I don't really think they like people doing that."

"Sure they do," Edward shrugged.

"No. That's okay."

"Well, if you ever change your mind, let me know."

The atmosphere between us had lightened significantly, and the waitress, who'd decided just to linger in the background when she noticed the intensity of our discussion, came up to take our orders.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Edward stayed in the Porsche while I went into _Bella Italia._ Chelsea Giampetroni, the waitress who had witnessed Tanya getting into the Volvo, was now working as the manager. I didn't think that I had much of a shot getting her to talk to me, but I was going to try nevertheless.

I didn't bother trying to hide my reason for wanting to talk to her. I asked for her by name and waited at the hostess' stand. When she walked up, I handed her a piece of paper with my name and cell number and started talking. "I can understand if you don't want to speak to me," I said. "But I was her friend. I know it's been a long time and I'm still not over it. I just want to know what happened."

"This is my place of business," she snapped, crumpling the paper up.

"I didn't know how else to find you."

She studied me for a minute. "You been out to the cabin?" she asked.

I drew away, feeling sick again. Maybe I shouldn't have come after all. I remembered how her brother, Demetri, liked to beat up his girlfriends. I could only imagine his sister having similarly violent hobbies.

"Five minutes," she told me. "Outside by the dumpster."

I went outside and waited, the chill air on my skin calming my stomach, but the smell coming from the dumpster wasn't as pleasant. The slap of a door against brick alerted me to Chelsea's arrival, and I tensed, ready to flee. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, making no effort to blow the smoke away from me.

"It was a silver Volvo," she started, the speech obviously having been repeated many times. "How do I know it was a Volvo? I wanted that car. That very model. Not that I could afford it with this bullshit economy. How do I know it was silver? It was the same color as the nail polish that I was wearing that day. Didn't notice the license plate. How did I remember the girl? She was a bitch. I was standing outside smoking, just like this, minding my own business, and she comes by sneering at me like the smoke is all up in her face. All these people nowadays trying to legislate where and when I exercise my own right to live the way I choose. The car pulled up to the curb here," she pointed a long fingernail, "and this guy with red hair is driving."

The rote nature of her delivery had lowered my defenses. I felt bold enough to ask a question. "Red hair?"

"I wanted that too. Exactly that color. So hard to get out of a box, you know. I almost yelled for him to wait a minute so that I could get a pic, but he was gone, with the bitch blathering at him about where has he been and he's lucky she's even talking to him after what he put her through."

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. Not that I could hear. Seemed like he just saw her walking down the street and stopped, pulling over to the wrong side so that she could get in without having to cross."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"You're thinking he looked like that other guy who keeps coming around asking me questions and bothering my brother? They said it wasn't him, but whoever it was sure had the same color hair. I made him let me get a pic. But he wouldn't leave me alone. Tried to get me to agree to hypnosis. Like I'm going to do something like that—they'd probably get me clucking like a chicken or convince me that I was abducted by aliens or something. It doesn't matter. I didn't see the guy long enough to even give the cops a sketch. The car was just sitting there less than a minute and the guy had shades on. Big ones. Covered half his face."

It was all so random. If someone wanted to set Edward up, wouldn't they have made sure there was more than one eyewitness?

"Was there anyone else on the street?" I asked.

"I have no idea. I'm telling you what I saw right in front of me at that exact second. I didn't see anyone else."

I couldn't think of any other questions besides _Are you lying for your brother?_ and I didn't have the courage for that. So I thanked her for her time and wondered why Edward thought I would be able to succeed where he, the police and the FBI had already failed.

She was about to go back inside when it occurred to me to ask why she'd changed her mind about talking to me.

"Because you didn't like the look of that cabin," she said. "You're not some gossip-mongering reporter or thrill-seeking freak just hassling me for kicks."

As she went back into the restaurant, it occurred to me that she wasn't as half as intimidating as I'd imagined.

I wondered what it must be like, having a brother who enjoyed hurting women.

Then it struck me, more forcibly than ever before, that Tanya's killer could very well have family in Forks or Port Angeles. I could have seen the killer at the grocery store. At _The Lodge._ We may have even gone to school together.

**AN: Some of my guest reviews are so insightful! And yet I have no way to reply directly :( A guest reviewer pointed out that it seemed strange in the previous chapter that Bella didn't tell Edward about being confronted by Aro (the same issue was raised by another reviewer to whom I was able to reply directly). Did I give that impression? I can't remember if I meant to do so. The run-in with Aro might have been covered by Bella telling Edward all "about the Denalis." But if she didn't tell Edward, I'm sure it's because, like with the anonymous letters and the dead animal, she just doesn't take threats against herself seriously (low self-esteem, anyone?). She's not trying to get Edward to like her, per se, she's just not being actively hostile (though making him listen to Rasputina could be considered an act of violence – I say this as a fan who owns several of their CDs and has seen them in concert, and yes, I coerced a friend who I may or or may not have been secretly angry at to go with me to that concert). There is also the fact that I just might not see something which is obvious to you – which is why I love it when you point these things out!**

**Rec: Take a Little Trip by KristenLynn**

In high school, geeky Edward tutored popular Bella. It ended badly. Four years later, Edward reappears in one of grad student Bella's classes. Both have changed. A lot. Will it be enough? AU/AH,OOC Twilight - Rated: M - English - Romance/Drama - Chapters: 16 - Words: 102,946 - Reviews: 672 - Favs: 833 - Follows: 492 - Updated: Jul 21, 2010 - Published: Nov 30, 2009 - Bella, Edward - Complete


	12. Chapter 12

**18Dec2014****– if you started reading on or after this date, you knew this was coming. **

**Otherwise, some explanation is called for: It occurred to me that a real gothic serial would be appearing in a newspaper or magazine in the midst of news articles and advertisements. And who am I to deny the people their slice of authenticity?**

**Alas, Meyers still owns all, damn it.**

**FANFIC TIMES**

_All the news that the others won't print_

_Moral Ethics Group Wants _Gothic_Banned_

\- Thomas de Quincey

A moral ethics coalition has petitioned to have "Gothic," a serial published in this paper by author-self-insert, banned. "If it were just sex, we wouldn't mind," one member of the coalition explained. "But its suggestion of degraded moral standards is beyond the pale. Why, to think that a young woman, when faced with the charms of a handsome, upstanding young man like that dashing Edward Cullen, could conceive of doing anything but throw herself at him is outrageous! We won't stand for it."

The coalition's catch-phrase, "burn the fanfic," has reportedly been circulated via emails, texts and blog posts. Since very few people are actually reading "Gothic," the drive to have it banned isn't very widespread.

We will continue to bring you news as the story breaks.

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**MURRAY'S RED TAIL SOAP**

_It is THE way to get out all of the most indelible stains!_

_Just listen to what these real housewives have to say about it:_

'Before Murray's Red Tail Soap, I would have to scrub and scrub to get my husband's laundry clean. Now, just one quick soak, and it is good as new!'

'Murray's Red Tail Soap made my whites just sparkle!'

_Murray's Red Tail Soap. In all your finer home goods stores._

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**GOTHIC, by author-self-insert**

_The most shocking tale of decadence and immorality to cross your computer screen in decades._

_Rush to your computer and read it today._

_**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**_

**HAVE YOU BEEN FEELING DEPRESSED LATELY?**

**Is there just a little less pep to your pep?**

_**You need more FANFICTION!**_

Fanfiction has been anecdotally proven to distract readers from their woes for grossly inappropriate periods of time.

Readers report that they lose time. Sometimes they even forget what was bothering them before they started reading.

**The experts agree:**

**READ MORE FANFICTION FOR A HAPPIER LIFE!**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

**Murder of Local Girl Still Unsolved**

By Ambrose Bierce

This paper's recent efforts to enlist the aid of the public in solving Tanya Denali's murder have inspired the police to renew their efforts on her behalf. Meanwhile, the public's suspicions and theories continue to pour in. Grateful for their support, we are publishing the most recent submissions with the hope that they generate more leads:

**Edward**

Alibi – Bella saw him in the woods at the time of the murder…unless he has a double!

Motive – Tanya had just cheated on him

\- Yay: JessaCloud "Sometimes I think maybe Bella just *thought* she saw Edward in the meadow, but he wasn't really there?" 4Dec, eustaciavye1 "Edward did it. Bella is totes the next victim." 5Dec, JinxedBookaholic243 "Does he have a secret crazy twin? I'm borrowing from pretty little liars, yes." 6Dec

**Jasper**, Edward's friend

Alibi – was supposedly in Texas at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: Capricorn75 "Jasper did it! Okay, no reason for saying that, I'm just naming my suspect early on. Calling shotgun, if you will." Nov19, WiltshireGlo "I still think Jasper knows more even if he wasn't the killer. There had to have been more than one person involved." 4Dec, Capricorn75 "My top 3 suspects are- in no particular order- Jasper, Alice, and Aro (aka BOB from Twin Peaks)." 6Dec

\- Nay: Cared "I don't suspect Jasper or Alice" 18Nov

**Alice**

Alibi – was supposedly in Mississippi at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Alice's high school years such a torment

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest on 14Nov, LRK680 "I believe this whole thing is about Edward. I think some psycho wanted to be him, his house was empty and his car was in the driveway, I'll bet it actually WAS his car. Someone knew how to get into his house and get his key, then they pretended to BE Edward with the wig (did the killer collect Edward's real hair from haircuts or was it synthetic?). Tanya was just serendipitous, angered by her unfaithfulness and wanting to punish her (while Edward). It probably was a long slow train ride to crazy for this killer. Eric could very well be that crazy, the knife wound could have come from Tanya fighting back, also it worries me that Alice would have the skills to pull this off (although she's kinda tiny, so I'm thinking not her because of that). Tanya probably thought it really was Edward when she was getting in the car, especially since the large sunglasses covered most of the psycho's face." 4Dec, lee21761 "Not sure if she could be the killer but was she really in Mississippi or was there another episode..." 4Dec, Capricorn75 "My top 3 suspects are- in no particular order- Jasper, Alice, and Aro (aka BOB from Twin Peaks)." 6Dec

\- Nay: Cared "I don't suspect Jasper or Alice" 18Nov

**Bella**

Alibi – Saw Edward in the woods at the time of the murder (…but no one saw her, did they?)

Motive – 1. Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Bella's high school years such a torment. 2. Plot to destroy Edward's traitorous girlfriend and swoop in to save Edward from prosecution, all in a desperate gamble to make Edward like her (really? desperate much!)

\- Yay: wonderfullybedazzled "She seems to work hard to keep up her professional persona, reminding herself of acceptable social discourse." 4Dec, SandPrincess13 "Bella turns into a shapeshifter without her own knowledge and is out to annihilate the vampires by accusing them of serial killing. ._. She is the prime suspect, and it is highly possible that Edward is a vampire. So, the plan to destroy Edward makes sense. And then she might have contacted random serial killer who likes to pretend that he is a vampire and pumps the blood out of the victims body after which said serial killer drinks the blood." 4Dec, punkrose 86 "Something keeps nagging at me making me think Bells is the murderer" 5Dec, Bevey99 "Honestly I suspected Bella. Motive, and opportunity. And, by saying he didn't do it. It through any slight suspicion off of her." 7Dec

**Mike** **Newton**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

\- Yay: EdwardsFirstKiss "I think either James or Mike" 4Dec, shaz308 "I think Mike nay have more to do with things too though I have a feeling it was a join effort." 4Dec

**Jessica**, Tanya's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

**Lauren**, Tanya's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

**Eric**

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Eric's high school years such a torment.

\- Yay: LRK860 "Or, I'm leaning towards an adult for this, of all the teenagers involved, Eric is the only one who I think would snap (if Alice was really in Mississippi)." 4Dec, LRK680 "I believe this whole thing is about Edward. I think some psycho wanted to be him, his house was empty and his car was in the driveway, I'll bet it actually WAS his car. Someone knew how to get into his house and get his key, then they pretended to BE Edward with the wig (did the killer collect Edward's real hair from haircuts or was it synthetic?). Tanya was just serendipitous, angered by her unfaithfulness and wanting to punish her (while Edward). It probably was a long slow train ride to crazy for this killer. Eric could very well be that crazy, the knife wound could have come from Tanya fighting back, also it worries me that Alice would have the skills to pull this off (although she's kinda tiny, so I'm thinking not her because of that). Tanya probably thought it really was Edward when she was getting in the car, especially since the large sunglasses covered most of the psycho's face." 4Dec, chosmer "I want to say Eric even tho 90% of me believes he's innocent. My theory is he got that wound from Tanya when she put up a fight when he kidnapped her. But we all know it's James." 4Dec

**James**, Edward and Jasper's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – Does he need one? Everyone hates James. Except, of course, the people who flip the script and make him the hero of their ffn.

Votes:

\- Yay: Angelari7 "James maybe?" 31Oct, cejsmom "my money is on James" 19Nov, 2brown-eyes "possible foreshadowing…James perhaps?" 18Nov, GorGirl "I bet it was James" 25Nov "I'm still going with James. I bet he had sex with Tanya, too, and wanted her to be his. She was too much of a f*** to commit to anyone, so he killed her and drank her blood because he thinks he's a vampire." 4Dec, jansails "James, Felix, or Demetri, or their wives/girlfriends did the deed?" 4Dec, wonderfullybedazzled "Aro or James could be the killer." 4Dec, chosmer "…we all know it's James." 4Dec, 2402a "I truly believe that it is James" 4Dec, EdwardsFirstKiss "I think either James or Mike" 4Dec, Susie Mook "I had thought James" 5Dec, JulieToo "For me, it's a tie between James and Aro as to who is the killer of Tanya. I'm thinking Twin Peaks weirdness mixed in with Bella's ghosts and living-in-the-books lifestyle. Yum!" 6Dec

**Irina**, Tanya's sister

Alibi – She was pretty young, and with Kate at another shop

Motive – Crazy

\- Yay: jansails "Or maybe it was Irina- she is off her rocker, right?" 4Dec

**Victoria**, is she in this story?

Alibi – ?

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: Fakin' it "Victoria. She has red hair, could've had it tucked into her shirt to make it look short. She did it because James slept with Tanya, and she's a jealous, crazy lady. Or James and Victoria working together, just because they are psycho. Maybe they were into blood play and snuff, and it was a game to them. I'm sure Tanya would've agreed to a threesome considering her penchant for sex, and wouldn't have known how deadly the consequences could be. If Tanya was raped while unconscious, killer must've used a condom, or else the police would've found semen and done DNA testing on it…. I still think Victoria is a good possibility. Maybe she knew someone who had a Volvo like Edward's and she dressed like Edward and tried to look like Edward to fool Tanya, not to set it up with eyewitnesses. She just wanted *Tanya* to think she was getting into Edward's car long enough to get her away without a struggle. That's why there wasn't more of an effort at setting up Edward for the murder with eyewitnesses. The effort was all for Tanya's benefit, so she wouldn't realize the danger until it was too late. And then, after she murdered Tanya, she called James and told him what she'd done with the girl he'd cheated on her with, and he was impressed, being a psycho. He then called in the murder after Victoria was away from the cabin. It may have even been a coincidence that Edward got blamed, or James may have known that Edward wasn't at the party and knowing how Victoria lured Tanya away by pretending to be Edward, he may have then hoped Edward would get the blame, so Victoria would be safe.`" 4Dec

\- Nay:

**Felix Manning**, had sex with Tanya, mechanic at the place where Tanya's father took his cars

Alibi – ?

Motive – ?

\- Yay: jansails "James, Felix, or Demetri, or their wives/girlfriends did the deed?" 4Dec

**Demitri Giampetroni**, had sex with Tanya, brother of waitress who is the last person to see Tanya alive

Alibi – ?

Motive – ?

\- Yay: jansails "James, Felix, or Demetri, or their wives/girlfriends did the deed?" 4Dec

**Carlisle**

Alibi – Was in Seattle at the time of the murder with his wife (of course, you will recall that spouses can't be compelled to testify…)

Motive – Was he one of the men that Tanya was having an affair with?

Votes:

\- Yay: LRK860 "You have me wondering about Carlisle. Didn't Edward say his parents wanted him to date Tanya, why? Small town gossip surely would have zoomed in on her at some point. Or a good visit to the good doctor because of an STD scare." 20Nov, WiltshireGlo "I'm beginning to wonder about Carlisle" 4Dec, JessaCloud "Could he have been using Edward's car and killed Tanya?" 4Dec , SandPrincess13 "It could be Carlisle, but that doesn't explain where Esme was at the moment. I believe that Carlisle would have known the points that could be used to drain someone, but what would be do it with? Syringe?" 4Dec, roxiegirl "Hmmm, the precision of the knife slices makes me think some medical training. ...maybe Carlisle got her pregnant and had to kill her." 4Dec

**Mike Newton's father**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Grocery store manager**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Gas station attendant**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Aro Denali**

Alibi – ?

Motive – Psycho (poor Tanya)

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "Her sisters knew an awful lot about her sexual exploits, what about Daddy? How long were the girls sitting in the coffee shop, who came to get them" 20Nov, CindyWindy1 "Mr. Denali makes a fine suspect. Acting unhinged and irrationally angry now, and in the past he threatened to horrifically murder high school aged Bella." 27Nov, EnchantedbyTwilight "I am all in for Aro being the killer - Daddy issues abound in this story - molestation? And Aro's reaction to Bella visiting the hospital. With Irina seeing vampires and the manner in which Tanya was killed, there is something ritualistic about it. I also see cult involvement of sorts, so maybe there are several involved as well." 4Dec, sharkjumper "I'm now totally obsessed with Renee's obsession for pedophiles... I feel there is something with that tidbit of info. Was Renee molested as a child? Maybe by Aro? Maybe Aro had his own kids in a p*** ring? Tanya was too old to be the victim of a p*** ring...but there was something ritualistic about her death..." 4Dec, majose "Aro definitely gives the psycho vibe." 4Dec, wonderfullybedazzled "Aro or James could be the killer." 4Dec, Guest "It was Colonel Mustard, in the parlor with a knife! Lol Still no clue, Renee is a freak, could she know of a group in Forks that does bizarre or satanic rituals? She grew up there then left with Bella. Right? Maybe Aro is part of this group, and Tanya was picked as a sacrifice (kind of like The Lottery). He just can't deal with anything anymore, just like his other daughters. The only thing throwing me off is the apparent randomness of the volvo and red-headed drivers abduction of her. Was it random? Or was the person following her, watching and waiting for an opening to swoop in and whisk her off to her untimely death? This person must have known that almost all the teenagers in town were on the beach. Hmmm..." 4Dec, 2old4fanfic "Clearly Aro has been both abuser and abused. His daughters' history of promiscuity and mental issues all point to sexual abuse by a close associate. The abuse by someone who is supposed to keep you safe causes a mental schism. Aro loves and hates his daughters for 'allowing' him to abuse them and especially Tanya, for having sex with anyone who isn't him. Multiple stab wounds, overkill, indicate a close relationship with the killer (which may only be in the killer's mind). Aro wants to get back at Edward because Tanya may actually have liked Edward, which would enrage her there. Also, I suspect he threatened his other daughter, Kate, to give false testimony" 4Dec, Capricorn75 "My top 3 suspects are- in no particular order- Jasper, Alice, and Aro (aka BOB from Twin Peaks)." 6Dec, JulieToo "For me, it's a tie between James and Aro as to who is the killer of Tanya. I'm thinking Twin Peaks weirdness mixed in with Bella's ghosts and living-in-the-books lifestyle. Yum!" 6Dec, nitammi "I am putting her mother on associative alert, along with Aro (pedo?) With Irina having some traumatic involvement." 6 Dec

**Renee**, Bella's mother

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: sharkjumper "Hmmmmmmm... Why is your suspects list missing Renee and Phil?"4Dec, majose "It could very well be Edward! Or Renee or a friend of her (Phill?)." 4Dec, Guest "So i'm going for Renee, two things stuck out for me. Firstly the weird things Renee would say to her when she was a kid and that "she said that she could protect me" and the last time they saw each other was after fight right after Tanya's murder. Plus right at the end when Bella says "then it struck me, more forcibly than ever before, that Tanya's killer could very well have family in Forks". Renee wanted to protect Bella from her monsters, which would be Tanya and Edward, kill one and set up the other." 5Dec, KTNCullen "Hmmmmm...could Bella's creepy mom have had something to do with it? I feel like that was foreshadowing about her knowing the killer's family." 6Dec, nitammi "I am putting her mother on associative alert, along with Aro (pedo?) With Irina having some traumatic involvement." 6 Dec

**Phil**, Bella's stepfather

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: sharkjumper "What is up with Phil? Where is he now? Does he have red hair?" 4Dec, majose "It could very well be Edward! Or Renee or a friend of her (Phill?)." 4Dec

**Unknown serial killer**

Alibi - ?

Motive – Psycho serial killer who just happened to have short red hair and drive a car that looked like Edward's

\- Yay: sharkjumper "I think we have to start dissecting the anonymous notes that Bella has been getting as of late, but this one in particular: "The strangeness of the figure, and its being so close akin to his own nature, attracted him." My theory is that the killer offed Tanya (and others) as sacrifice for Bella. I have 1 dollar running on a mysterious serial killer. I can't pick a suspect from the current lineup, but I'm very intrigued by Eric's wound and Alice's nuthouse stint." 4Dec

**Unknown female**

Alibi – ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: Rebadams7 "I can't be specific yet but I believe there will be a female in this female could give blows to the head with a heavy object to inflict the damage without crushing the skull and well opening the veins might be a simple way to murder thinking she's going to make it look like a suicide and no one will notice the blows to the head" 4Dec

**Someone from La Push**, it wouldn't be fair to leave them out

Alibi – Just about everyone was at First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – 1. Maybe Tanya found that pirate gold that's supposed to be buried in La Push (yes, I was serious about this. If _Oak Island_ can have its own show, then I can have pirate gold at La Push). 2. Needed to hide fact that they'd had sex with Tanya.

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "What about the boys on the reservation? Who did she sleep with from there?" 20Nov, LRK860 "You were serious about the pirate's gold? That opens up another can of worms. Although, that would be big news, and the LaPush residents would want it for themselves. So maybe the tribe killed her ritualistically to throw everyone off?" 4Dec

**Police**, maybe just some of them or all of them (ugh?)

Alibi – ?

Motive – They were having sex with Tanya

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "WHY didn't the police investigate further, did Tanya sleep with some of them?" 20Nov

**Wives and girlfriends of everyone who Tanya had sex with**

Alibi – ?

Motive – They were having sex with her

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "I've got no clue where to begin to whittle down possible suspects who wanted Tanya dead. Lots of wives and girlfriends, for sure." 20Nov (yes this is the same guest who cast the other votes noted for this day – he/she was ON FIRE!)

**Parent of kid who's snapped (like maybe Eric's parents)**

Alibi - ?

Motive – Kid's snapped

Votes:

\- Yay: LRK860 "Or, I'm leaning towards an adult for this, of all the teenagers involved, Eric is the only one who I think would snap (if Alice was really in Mississippi). Or, maybe the parent of a tortured child (like the Chief), finally had enough and wanted revenge for the hurt and abuse? And we still don't know who owns the cabin in the woods and who in the area knew about it." 4Dec

**Charlie**, Bella's father

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: eesti "I hate him." 4Dec

**Jacob**, is he in this story?

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: eesti "I hate him." 4Dec

**SandPrincess13**, reviewer of "Gothic"

Alibi - ? but she was probably taking a test

Motive – Why not?

\- Yay: SandPrincess13 "I confess, I did it" 4Dec

**Everyone**

Alibi – if everyone is the killer then no one's alibi is any good, they're just covering for each other. And as for the call…maybe they wanted to make sure that Tanya was found when everyone seemed to have an alibi…

Motive – Cult like in _Wicker Man_. I mean the original movie, of course. And Edward's the ginger! Sacrificing him was part of the whole ritual!

\- Yay: VampiresHaveLaws "I pretty much suspect everyone. Seriously, everyone. Bella, Edward, Alice, Irina, Kate. All of them…This all screams ritualistic to me. The placement of the cuts especially. That's so specific. Medical, even. Some messed-up ritual to try and make Tanya "pure" by draining her? It could be cult related, those in higher places, and that's why the police didn't follow through with the investigation the way they should have. But then why only one murder? Why not more? Then we have Irina and her talk of vampires (she was a kid when Tanya was murdered, right? And kids unconsciously pick up on all sorts). And then there are the letters being sent to Bella and the dead animal turning up on her doorstep the day after she agrees to help Edward. And Eric's scar (what the hell did those kids do to him?) But then this doesn't explain why they/he/she would try and frame Edward. If he was even framed. And it doesn't explain why someone/he would report it all by making that call." 4Dec

**Vampire**, seen by Irene going in and out of Tanya's room

Alibi – Vampires don't exist (supposedly)

Motive – An insatiable thirst for life-blood

Votes:

\- Yay: Roxiegirl "sounds like a vampire to me LOL"

**Jack the Ripper**, I just felt like adding him, though in his defense, he probably would have taken some organs

Alibi – He would have to be really, really old

Motive – Penchant for women of ill repute

**Author-self-insert**, author of "Gothic" (this suspect was inspired by sharkjumper)

Alibi – Making author-self-insert the killer would require avant-garde maneuvers of a kind multiple reviewers would object to and is therefore unthinkable (or is it?).

Motive – Psycho

**AN: The newspaper man Pulitzer and his rivals would indeed make appeals to the public like this, and offer rewards for any clues that might lead to a break in a case…Translation: Give the paper a scoop. I probably won't update the suspect list every week but I wanted to do so this time as thanks to the reviewers who so kindly sent their thoughts or thanked me for providing the list in the first place. Much appreciated!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Many thanks to VampiresHaveLaws for the rec!**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 10

'_Or is it fear turns startled reason back…_

_A dreadful friend it is, a terror kind,_

_A flaming sword to guard the tree of life.'_

_Edward Young_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic, _our heroine interrogated the waitress whose testimony against the benighted Edward Cullen was so very damning. The results, alas, of said interrogation were not promising._

I expected Edward to be more disappointed when I told him what happened with the waitress.

"There's nothing new," I said. I was afraid that he would be upset that I hadn't asked Chelsea about covering for her brother. But if so, he didn't mention it.

"That's a good point though about the witnesses."

I had told him my theory: If it really was all a set-up, why weren't there more witnesses to Tanya being picked up by a guy who looked like Edward driving a silver Volvo? The killer had just caught a lucky break with that waitress coming forward. I shrugged. "I don't see how it helps though. Unless there was someone who saw everything and didn't come forward."

"Maybe they were going to come forward, but they were waiting for something."

"Waiting for what?"

"I don't know. Maybe they wanted to make sure that there weren't any loose ends. Like they were waiting for the trial."

"Wouldn't that look weird? Waiting to come forward only after the trial started?"

"Maybe they had a good reason for keeping quiet. Or maybe they left town, like you, and didn't realize what happened."

It sounded awful coincidental to me. "Do you remember anyone besides me leaving town right after that?"

Edward shook his head. "Jasper and Alice were already gone. College didn't start for a month and a half. There was no reason for anyone else to leave in the middle of July unless they had some trip planned with their families."

"What about the students in Port Angeles?"

"I could just as well ask about the ones in La Push. How obsessive are we going to be?"

"No one in La Push could get away with impersonating you," I observed. "And obsession is your department."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Edward drove the rest of the way to Forks. I was going to have dinner with my father that night and then I was going to question Edward's parents the next day. I wasn't looking forward to either.

"Hey Bells," Charlie greeted me when he got home.

"Hi dad." I was cooking lasagna and a chocolate cake. I figured it would be easier getting information out of him if he was in a food coma.

"That got any meat in it?" he asked, sniffing suspiciously at the scent wafting from the kitchen.

"You're more than welcome to cook some meat to add to your portion," I informed him sweetly.

He grumbled and settled into an armchair in front of the tv.

"What's this?" he queried as I handed him a Vitamin R.

"I'm just so grateful that you let me stay here while I'm visiting." I had decided that I would be much more successful in my detecting if I adopted an upbeat demeanor. People like happy people, don't they? I could be happy. For a while.

Charlie studied me carefully. Perhaps my smile was too wide. "You know that you're more than welcome to stay here just as often as you'd like," he said.

"Sure sure."

"But I'm going fishing tomorrow morning bright and early."

"That's alright, I have some stuff I need to do anyways."

"What stuff?"

"Visiting Mrs. Brandon. Alice wanted me to check in on her."

"That's nice of you."

I nodded.

"Except she's not in town."

"What?"

"She's up in Seattle, seeing Alice. Thought you'd know that, seeing as how Alice sent you down here and whatnot."

I pursed my lips. "Well, she didn't send me down here, per se. But since I was here, I knew that she wouldn't want me to pass up the opportunity."

"So why are you down here?"

"Oh, there's some stuff in my room that I wanted to pick up. Left some old mementos under the loose floorboard in the closet." It wasn't a lie, technically. And my father would not support my real reasons for coming.

"There's a loose floorboard in the closet?"

"Sure is."

"Hmm. Didn't know that."

"Yep."

"I should probably fix that. Make sure it holds tight."

"But then where would people hide their mementos?"

"Some place that they don't go forgetting they're there."

"If I hadn't forgotten it was there, I would have had no reason to come home now would I?"

"Visiting your dad isn't reason enough?" Charlie asked in mock offense.

I was clearly not cutout for subterfuge, but I was determined to contine playing dumb. No matter how stupid I sounded. I smiled weakly. "You know that's not what I meant. You set me up for that."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I did. And you fell for it, too."

Interrogating him about Tanya's murder was going to be oodles of fun.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I waited until Charlie was back in his armchair, staring at the game on tv.

"Hey dad," I started.

He grunted. I decided this was a positive sign. If I could get him talking without really paying attention to the conversation, I might be able to make some progress.

"You know who just started working at the university? Jasper Hale."

"Huh."

"Yeah, and you know who else is living in Seattle? He's a doctor now. Edward Cullen."

"Hmmph."

"Alice is dating Jasper."

I waited for the grunt but there wasn't one.

"It made me wonder. Whatever happened to that case?" Charlie would know the case that I meant. "Edward's clearly moved past it but it must still suck for him to come back here."

Still nothing. Maybe he was asleep.

"Dad?"

Charlie turned off the tv and looked at me. "What do you want?"

So much for subterfuge. "I was just wondering if any new leads had come up."

"The case was in Port Angeles, not Forks."

"I know that they kept you in the loop."

"I can't talk about a case that isn't solved."

I fiddled with the strings hanging loose from the seat cushion. "Maybe if you didn't use specifics, you could just tell me whatever isn't confidential. I could give you an insider's perspective."

"Insiders?"

"Yeah, I went to school with all of them."

"I thought you weren't friends with any of that crowd."

"I wasn't."

Charlie's mustache twitched.

"I still knew them," I said.

"Don't you think that I already went over every angle of that case?"

I shrugged.

He shook his head. "I still go over the files every now and then. Staying up nights trying to figure out who killed that girl."

"I guess that I didn't realize it was that important to you."

"First of all, it could have been you. You could have been the girl that they found in that shack. Second of all, you don't think that I would have done everything I could to solve a case that you were involved in?"

"I wasn't really involved."

"You were involved enough."

"I just told the truth."

Charlie fell silent again.

"Dad, you do know that I told the truth, don't you?"

"Bells, if you weren't my own daughter, I would have been sure that you'd lied."

I didn't know what to say.

"Look," he continued. "I know you told the truth, but there was an eyewitness who put that boy with Tanya Denali an hour before she was killed. His hair was found at the scene. Her blood was in his car. You might be able to explain away the forensic evidence, but you can't get rid of an eyewitness. Someone saw that boy with that girl at exactly the same time you say that you saw him in that damn meadow. If I weren't your father, I'd be pissed at you for ruining a near perfect case. And believe me, this town wants that killer behind bars."

Charlie took another swig from his beer and played with the remote.

"So what?" I asked. "They're never going to catch him?"

He sighed. "They come up with new techniques every day. Cold cases get solved. I hope they catch him."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The next morning, after Charlie left, I pulled down the stairs to the attic and climbed up.

I remembered what he'd said: _He still went over the files every now and then, staying up at night…_

I knew that there were a couple of boxes of files in the attic. I wasn't supposed to know that they were there, of course, but Charlie had an interest in cold cases and he'd brought some stuff from his old precinct when he'd settled in Forks. A couple of times, he had even managed to come up with a lead that led to an arrest.

I sat on the floor of the attic and started going through the boxes.

As if Edward's binders and the sight of the cabin itself weren't enough to make me sick, these files were chock full of grisly photos and details of a whole host of crimes. I went through the folders as quickly as possible, never pausing any longer than it took to realize that the folder in front of me wasn't what I wanted, but I still couldn't help catching glimpses of images and words that I wished I hadn't seen. All of it suggesting a meanness of spirit and a coldness of heart and, worst still, a grotesque perversity of the human conscience. It turned my stomach to think that such heinous acts could be a source of glee to monsters and demons in the flesh.

When I found Tanya's file at last, I almost put it down and moved on to the next one, my vision having blurred with the desire to un-see.

I stopped and opened it again. I recognized the crime scene photos that I'd moved past so hastily in Edward's apartment. Photocopies of many of the same notes and timelines.

There were, however, several items that I'd never seen before. A series of photographs taken at First Beach.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Quil Ateara was pickled as punch when I asked him to give me a lift to La Push. And he made sure that Embry knew all about it too. Clearly, their amateur pissing match was still going strong.

"Technically," I said, glancing over at Quil, "I called the garage, not you. If Embry had answered, I would have asked him for a ride instead."

Quil grinned even wider. "I keep telling you, the fates want us together. Of course, I was the one who answered the phone. It's—what do they call it? Kismet."

I knew that this was nothing more than harmless flirting, which was something I had found that people sometimes did to pass the time. It was reserved for acquaintances between whom there was no chance of anything beyond comfortable familiarity. Besides, Quil was completely devoted to Claire. "Sure sure. You would think that the two of you would have better things to fight over."

"The bonus with fighting over you is that we get to bet who can make you blush more."

"Asshole," I joked, smacking him lightly on the arm in imitation of an impertinence I'd witnessed between Embry and Quil on many an occassion. We'd first bonded the summer after I graduated from undergrad, when my truck broke down on the outskirts of LaPush and they rescued me. We bonded over horror movies. They were among the first real friends I ever made but I still felt sometimes like I was faking. Like now. Punching Quil on the arm. That was alright, wasn't it? Something friends did.

"Hey, I'm driving here."

"Stop being a crybaby."

Quil left me at Sue Clearwater's and promised to be back to pick me up in an hour.

"Are you sure that you don't want to come along?" I asked, hoping he'd turn me down but not wanting to be rude either. I thought my conversation with Sue would go down better in private.

"Nah, I'm going to see Claire."

"Isn't she a little young for you?" I asked. She was really only a few years younger and already in her twenties, but Quil deserved to be nettled a little. Friends nettled.

"Afraid of the competition?"

I thought of flipping him cordially off as he drove away, but didn't want Sue to catch sight of me doing it. Good thing too, because she was already opening the door when I turned around.

"Bella!" she greeted me enthusiastically with a hug that I couldn't help returning. As much as I might shy away from the random embrace, Sue's affection was different somehow. Real. I thought she was a genuinely good person. And I didn't think that about many people.

She pulled me inside. "Sit down, sit down," she ordered, pushing me onto the sofa and handing me a plate of fry bread.

"I'm such a jerk. I didn't remember to bring you anything," I apologized. This detecting would probably go much better if I could ply my subjects with tempting sweets.

"Hush. I'm happy that I just get to see you again. You don't come around often enough."

I felt a pang of guilt. Charlie had implied the same thing. But I wasn't sure how to go about remedying the problem. Forks was far enough away from Seattle that it wasn't convenient to just pop in for an hour or two and then go. It made more sense to come down for extended stays, but socialization was easier for me in short doses, with long breaks in between. An extended weekend of conviviality was well beyond my means.

I gave a weak smile and said I would try to come home more often. I spent the next thirty minutes asking questions about the res and her family. I wasn't pretending to be nice per se. I liked Sue. But I wanted something from her. That made my actions a little disingenuous, didn't it? I asked the expected questions. _How was Leah?_ That bitch. _And what about Billy Black? _Because heaven knew my father wouldn't tell me._ What about Sue's women's group?_

When all of the expected topics had been covered, and I'd said a thing or two about my teaching and had even told her about the gallery showing, I got down to business.

"Sue, do you remember ten years ago when Tanya Denali was killed in Port Angeles?" I asked, feeling guilty for having to bring the subject up.

She made a face and shuddered. "As if I could forget. It was awful. I know every generation says this, but stuff like that just didn't happen around here when I was growing up. I worry about the children of the future."

"Well I've been thinking about it for some reason." I didn't think that I should mention Edward's interest. "I can't help wondering if they made a mistake."

"Made a mistake?"

"They never caught the killer. And they were so sure it was that guy I went to school with. But I was the one who gave him his alibi. Remember? Because I saw him at the top of the blue trail at the same time Tanya was killed."

"Do you think that you made a mistake?"

"No. It was really him. But I didn't have a watch on me. I know for a fact that the sun was setting as I walked back to my truck. It was so dark that I fell once or twice. And it was definitely dark by the time I made it to my truck. I double-checked when sunset happened that day. It was at 9:07 pm. Doesn't it stay light for a couple of hours after that though? If it was later than I thought, maybe that guy did kill her and I gave him an alibi. I'd check for myself today, but it's October, and you know Tanya was killed in July."

"Honey, I'm sure you didn't do anything wrong. Where was your truck?"

I told her the name of the turnoff.

"Henry and I used to go up here—parking," she blushed, "all the time. In the middle of the summer, too. It gets dark there pretty fast, with the mountain and the trees. You don't have anything to worry about."

"You're not just trying to make me feel better?"

"I wouldn't lie to you. You know what? I'll ask Leah."

"Leah?" I crinkled my nose.

"She's a forest ranger."

I bet she busted all of the squirrels' nuts too.

Sue called Leah and asked her to stop by. I apologized for inconveniencing Sue (_fuck inconveniencing Leah_). She said it was no problem, and, while we were waiting for Leah, showed me a baby blanket that she was working on for Sam and Emily's first child.

Leah was none too pleased to see me. "What the hell do you want?" she growled when she saw me. _And to think that people think I'm a bitch,_ I thought.

"Be nice," her mother warned.

I explained my concerns, feeling somewhat more wary about doing so now that I was dealing with Sue's daughter.

"Mom's right," she said. "The alibi's solid. But I don't see why you care. That whole crowd was bad news."

It felt strange having to defend myself. Leah wasn't saying anything that I hadn't already said to Edward. "I just don't like that someone got away with murder."

"It's not like the girl who got killed was someone from the res." Leah didn't bother filtering her thoughts, which probably had something to do with the fact that Sue had left to go into the kitchen.

"It could have been."

She flicked her fingers. "Cullen might not have killed her, but I bet you it was someone from the same crowd."

"I didn't like any of them either but it's not like I can just go around making accusations."

"You want an accusation? Here's one. That asshat Cullen and his two friends. They were always coming down to First Beach and starting shit, pretending to look for that fucking pirate gold, which, if it is here, clearly belongs to us, not some asshats who don't know how to show respect when they're on someone else's land. Especially that creep James. He was the worst. I thought it was bad enough when it was just him and Cullen and that butt-buddy of theirs, but the three of them were nothing compared to James and that girl he started bringing around."

"What girl?" I asked, trying to remember if I knew her.

"I don't know. She wasn't from Forks. I'd never seen her before, and I never saw her after that summer either. Black Irish. I shouldn't even have called her a 'girl.' She looked _aged_, like she'd been ridden hard and hung up wet. She was always drinking on the beach and smoking her fucking cigarettes. Goading James into starting fights. She kept giving cigarettes and beers to the younger kids, like Claire, when Claire was only like ten."

"Do you remember her name?" I couldn't recall the woman Leah was describing.

"Mary or something like that. I figured that James had hooked up with her as a substitute for the Wonder Twins, because Cullen and his other little friend stopped showing up around the same time that she came on the scene. We finally told James that if he came back we'd kick his ass."

"It got that bad?"

"The last straw was him and that bitch screwing around on top of the cliffs. They convinced Jared to dive off. Thank God Sam just happened to be walking across the beach when it happened. Jared hit his head on a rock on the way down and broke a leg. Sam saved his life."

Christ. "I had no idea."

"No one gives a shit what happens on the res. Except when it will make them look good or they can use us to sell something. Otherwise, we don't exist."

"That's stupid."

"Yeah, well, what you going to do? We made sure that James and his slut knew they weren't welcome back in La Push and that was that."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Before leaving, I made Quil take me to the garage to see Embry. I asked them both if they remembered the party on First Beach. They did, of course, because Tanya's murder had been such a big deal. But they didn't remember anyone acting strangely (other than Eric getting stabbed later that night) and they didn't know the Forks crowd well enough to know whether or not someone was missing from the party. They were sure, however, that everyone from La Push—at least those of a certain age—were not only at the party but had stayed the whole time. I asked them to make a few inquiries on my behalf. Jared and Paul would certainly be more willing to answer questions coming from Quil or Embry than me, and maybe they had remembered something that they'd somehow forgotten to mention to the police ten years ago.

Quil dropped me off at the diner in Forks, where I joined Edward at a booth and he updated me on his activities of the previous evening.

Edward had gotten ahold of Mike Newton and taken him to a bar in Port Angeles, for old time's sake, on the pretense that two guys who'd fucked Tanya Denali ought to be able to commiserate over the fact ten years later. It seemed that Mike was not aware that his own father was a founding member of the club, and indeed, Edward saved that little tidbit until the end of the evening after, of course, having gotten Mike so drunk that the poor guy was just answering questions left and right.

_Where was Mike's father the night of Tanya's death?_ At _The Lodge_, of all places, at a Rotary Club meeting.

_Forks had a Rotary Club? _Yep, and the guy who ran the grocery store also happened to be a member of both the _Guys who Fucked Tanya Denali Club_ and the Rotary Club.

Before coming to the diner to meet me, Edward had stopped in at the grocery store. Unfortunately, he hadn't learned much of use and was no longer welcome on the premises.

Undaunted, Edward had stopped at the gas station as well, to see if anyone remembered the attendant who'd supposedly fucked Tanya in a port-a-potty. The employees of the gas station were more amenable to Edward's questions than those of the grocery store, but no one had worked there for more than five years, so Edward was going to put his PI on it.

If I had a PI, I'd put him on things too, like finding me more books to read and other fickle pursuits that I didn't think that Edward would care to hear.

I too had made great strides in the investigation. I told Edward that I had confirmed the whole issue surrounding his alibi and the timing of sunset (I left out the part about Leah referring to Jasper as Edward's "butt-buddy") and we decided that we didn't need to go out to verify the timing ourselves because it was the wrong time of year anyhow.

Edward thanked me, in a voice dripping with no small amount of sarcasm, for confirming an alibi that I myself had provided.

Then I showed him the pictures that I'd taken that morning with my cell phone of the photographs of First Beach that I'd found in my father's files. I thought that would shut him up, but no.

"You should have just borrowed the pictures from the file," he said. "If you go back and get it now, we can get them photocopied."

"I'm not going back through that file. The pictures I took with my phone are just fine."

Edward texted the pictures to himself and returned my phone. "You know that I can hardly make out any details in those pictures."

"I'm sure you already have a computer hacker with blue hair on speed-dial who can blow them up for you while _Prodigy _plays in the background. I thought they would make you happy. It's photographic proof that all of your little friends really were at that party on First Beach when Tanya was killed." The pictures had been taken from up on one of the cliffs and showcased the scene down on the beach. A typical party, with the makings of a bonfire and far too many red cups for a crowd where no one was over the age of twenty-one. The pictures had been attached to a list of everyone who'd been identified from the pictures. James What's-his-name, that dick Newton, his slut girlfriend, the whore with the hair, Maybe-not-a-bitch Leah, Paul, Sam, Jared, Kim and a host of others from Forks and La Push. Even Edward's favorite suspect: Eric. If the time stamp on the photos wasn't proof enough, the angle of the sun in most of the shots surely was. The pictures had been taken at the very time that someone was seen picking Tanya up in Port Angeles.

None of this seemed to impress Edward. He was just being difficult. "If you will recall," he reminded me, "you are the one who doubted that a party on First Beach qualified as a valid alibi."

"Just because your friends had an alibi doesn't mean that they weren't involved. If anything, it makes them even more suspicious. If I was going to kill someone, I'd make sure that I had an alibi too."

"Don't call them my friends."

I ignored Edward and continued to point out the obvious. "Isn't it convenient that that these pictures were taken right then? With all of them in it?" I had a burst of inspiration. "What if they were all in on it together? Maybe Tanya was blackmailing them with something. Like pictures of an orgy. They could have all pitched in to rent the car from out of state." I thought for a minute. "Oh! Maybe she found that pirate gold that's supposed to be hidden in a cave somewhere. They're waiting to come forward about the find because they don't want anyone to connect their discovery with Tanya's death. There could be chests of gold bullion just waiting to flood the market. We have to find out what all of your little friends have been doing since graduation."

"Pirate gold?"

"It's a thing."

"Only in those novels you study," he waved a dismissive hand.

I was astounded. "Pirate gold is much more than a fictive device. It represents the underbelly of a mercantile system that enslaved the proletariat in ways that were only slightly less criminal than—"

Sadly, my discourse on the dehumanizing effects of the early American-European economy was interrupted by a shriek.

"_Oh my God, Edward Cullen!" _

And right like that, I was back in high school. My heart stopped beating for a full two seconds with the shock of the moment. The past and the present colliding as the space-time continuum collapsed.

Regaining my senses, I looked at the waitress who'd interrupted us, but didn't recognize her.

"I can't believe you're back!" she shrieked some more.

Edward stared at her blankly, clearly not recognizing her either.

"It's me," she announced, throwing her arms wide. Her smile started to fade. "Jessica Stanley."

"Oh," Edward furrowed his brow, still looking confused. "Hello."

Jessica didn't seem bothered by his lapse in memory and glanced at me. "Who are you?"

"No one," I grinned back, giddy with the absurdity of the situation.

"It's Bella," Edward corrected, gesturing to me.

"Who?"

"Bella," he repeated more slowly. "_Isa_bella."

"Izzy," I helped.

She gazed at me for a minute more. "Ohhhh."

Wait for it.

"What are you doing with Edward?"

"Hey—" Edward started.

"It's a mentoring thing," I interrupted. "Like Big Brothers, to give people like me a chance at a real life."

Jessica stared back at me, confused.

"He lost a bet," I said instead.

"Oh, that sucks," she intoned, lamenting Edward's sad fate: A lunch in public with the likes of me.

"I know, right?" I commiserated. "But Edward was just telling me how much he wishes he hadn't fallen out of touch with the Forks crowd. He wishes that he knew what everyone was up to."

"I can totally help you with that," Jessica said, spinning around to face Edward.

"Are you free soon?" I asked, pulling my legs out of the range of Edward's feet. _That hurt._

"I have a break coming up, like, right now," she replied, still gazing at Edward.

"Awesome," I chirped.

She sneered at me. "You're not going to be hanging around too, are you?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Knowing that Edward would get a lot more out of Jessica without me there to muck up the works, I decided to leave him to his own devices. I couldn't help laughing at his expression of misery as I waved goodbye.

Left on my own for a while, I decided to wander through Forks' financial district, which was all of three blocks, to see what had changed since I'd last roared through town.

Turned out that, aside from _Hale's Upholstery _now being _Hale and Son's Upholstery_, nothing much had changed.

I checked out the square of grass behind _The Lodge_ where there used to be a payphone, the very payphone from which an anonymous tip had called in the location of Tanya's corpse the night of her murder. I even checked out various vantage points around the parking lot to see if the payphone would have been visible to passersby. It was a pretty obscure location, surrounded by brick walls forming the backs of other businesses and a dirty alley. Stupid place for a payphone anyhow. A person was just asking to get raped stopping there.

Stepping back out on the street, I spied the sign for _Newton's Outfitters_. I texted Edward to tell him to pick me up there when he finished (unless he and Stanley decided just to get a room—in which case, I said that I was more than happy to hitch a ride back to my dad's), and went inside.

It was exactly the same. Several racks of fishing supplies. Walls covered in guns. A dirty glass case filled with hunting knives.

Yeah, probably shouldn't say anything about the whole vegetarian thing in here.

"Can I help you?"

I had accidentally backed into a soft wall of—moist softness. "Sorry," I apologized. "Didn't see you there."

"No problem," my newfound friend huffed back at me, a flop of blond hair covering his sweaty brow. "Pretty light on my feet." He did a little dance step.

"I can see that," I said. He _had _snuck up on me after all.

"So what you looking for?"

"I don't know." I scanned the shop again. "I live alone in the city. I was thinking that I needed something for self-defense. Maybe a baseball bat." Why shouldn't I sieze the opportunity to practice my skills at subterfuge? I did live alone, after all. So that part was true.

I wondered if this what everyone else did all of the time. Making random conversation with perfect strangers.

"A baseball bat ain't going to do you any good if someone breaks into your place."

"Well, I'm just not sure that I can handle all of—" I waved a hand in a vague sort of way "—this."

"That's just 'cause all those liberals got you brainwashed into thinking a gun's a live snake." He swished his hand in the air, as if reenacting a cobra strike.

"I don't think I should own a gun. The temptation to shoot someone would be just too high. I have an awful lot of enemies."

He guffawed. "That's a good one. You're funny."

I was the life of the freaking party.

The salesman shuffled over to the display case. "Our merchandise is more than suitable to a woman with your needs. In fact, I am sure that we have more than enough to leave you feeling satisfied. Other outfitters will try to set you up with a blade that's too short. Or too weak. Just doesn't have the stamina to stay the course and bring you all the way to the end. But we guarantee all of our purchases. Our knives are long and strong and heat resistant. And they can work in wet conditions too. The wetter the better. You can just keep thrusting our knives as fast and as hard as you want until you're satisfied."

Oookay. I was sure that he didn't mean what I thought he meant. I didn't get hit on. Except by Quil and Embry. And then only as a proxy in their not so secret bromance.

He unlocked the back of the case and pulled out a knife. "Just look at this puppy. Japanese steel. A Russian knife expert designed it and is marketing it through us in an exclusive deal."

A Russian expert had come to Forks of all places to sell his exclusive Japanese knife?

"And I can offer it to you today for the very low price of three hundred dollars."

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. "That is a bit more than I meant to spend."

"You can't put a price on your well-being."

"You're probably right, but—" I frowned at the item in question. "I wouldn't know how to use this."

"It's very easy. Why I have skinned probably twenty deer with this very knife. It is of the very finest quality, as I'm sure you'll find." He held it out towards me.

"I don't—okay."

He slipped it into my palm. I held it out awkwardly to the side, then put it down on the counter again.

"Now what you want to do," he came around the counter and stood behind me. "Is put your weight on your back hip, like this." He pulled on my hip.

_I don't think so._

I started to step away, but he kept his grip on my hip. "And you want to put your left arm up, like this." He grabbed my wrist.

"Yeah I don't think that's going to work," I tried to pull away.

"Relax. Loosen up."

"Get—"

The jangling of the bell on the front door interrupted us.

"What the hell are you doing with my girlfriend?" Edward snarled. And cue another descent into the absurd theater that was now my life. Was there a camera hidden somewhere?

Meat hooks suddenly dropped me and moved away. _Damn right, asshole. _Not that I needed Edward to save me._ Had him right where I wanted him_, I thought, rubbing my wrist.

"Sorry dude, I was just showing her the knife," dickhead said, holding his hands up.

"You better not be talking about something inside your pants," Edward growled.

What the fuck? Okay, now I knew for a fact that there was a camera hidden somewhere because this wasn't really happening.

Alarmed, I stepped between them. "It was a real knife. A real knife. Which I don't want. Thanks anyways." I pushed Edward out of the shop.

"You know the conviction rate for rape would be a lot higher if women would stop trying to protect their attackers," Edward chastised me as we walked to his car.

"You know if women stopped running interference between combative men the human species as a whole would cease to exist," I told him, shuddering at the memory of the dickhead's sweaty hand on my wrist but still not quite able to deal with Edward's behavior either.

"I still can't believe that's Newton," Edward said shaking his head as he opened the passenger door of his Porsche for me. He was overly fond of opening doors for me, a habit that irked me to no end. It had led to more than one race between us to see who could reach the door first. As he had a car lock control on his keychain, he had the upper hand. For now.

"_That's_ Newton?"

"Yeah. Why won't you let me open your door?"

"I don't want to encourage your attempts at chivalry."

"Is it everyone's attempts at chivalry or just mine?"

"Just yours," I said, getting into the car. "I don't want you thinking you're a good person."

Not taking the bait, Edward changed the subject. "What were you doing in _Newton's Outfitters_?" he asked, sliding behind the steering wheel.

"I was investigating."

"It doesn't look like you got very far in your interrogation."

"Did I or did I not find photos of a certain party on First Beach this morning?" I didn't want to talk about Mike. Or about why Edward had told Mike that he was my boyfriend. Only one other person had ever played the hero like that for me before—Seth, and I secretly thought that Seth was just jealous that the prick was hitting on me and not him.

"My apologies."

"Shouldn't I question him myself?"

"I've already questioned him. Numerous times. He doesn't know anything that we don't."

"I thought the whole point was to get _me_ asking the questions."

"I don't want you anywhere near him. Besides, I notice that you didn't make any effort to give Jessica the third degree."

"Oh, I think your approach was far more effective with her. What did the idiot have to say?"

"Nothing new. They were all on First Beach partying. They all loved Tanya. They all thought that I'd done it. And no one has made it big recently with a sudden discovery of pirate gold." He shook his head. "Strange—getting hit on by someone who suspects you of murder. By the way, I'm going to get you back for abandoning me like that."

"Bullshit. That was a strategic investigative decision. And if you think that's strange, you've clearly never read any actual Gothic literature. Heroines are only interested in a man once they've begun to suspect him of murder. It reflects either the suppression of the female libido or their low self-esteem, depending on your perspective."

"She groped me. No comment on the female libido."

I couldn't help laughing.

Edward snorted. "I save you from getting molested by Mike Newton and you think it's funny that I got groped by Jessica Stanley."

"You're right," I tried to stop laughing. "I'm sorry."

"This is very sexist of you."

"I'm hungry. If you'll recall, I got thrown out of the diner before I had lunch. I'm too light-headed to think rationally." This was technically a lie. Sue's fry bread was very filling.

"Well, you can get something at my place."

His place. I was going to Edward's place. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.

_Off with her head!_

On the way to _The Cullen Manse_, as I decided to call it (Edward did not care for this appellation), Edward filled me in on the gossip. Lauren—"Who?" I asked. Edward provided a physical description. "Oh, the bitch with the hair."—Lauren (the bitch with the hair) was in Dallas running a beauty salon (Dallas—the hair—it made perfect sense). Edward continued naming people that I only vaguely recalled.

"Wait," I interrupted. "What about James?"

Edward didn't answer.

"She doesn't know where he went?"

Edward still didn't reply.

"He's not dead is he? Fuck—"

"No, he's in jail," Edward finally clarified.

"Jail? What the hell is he in jail for?"

"Drug possession with an intention to distribute."

"Hmm. Can't say I'm surprised. I wonder why dad didn't mention it."

"He wasn't arrested here."

"I'm sure Jessica loved telling that one. What a gossiping hag."

"Jessica didn't tell me. I already knew."

"'Cause he was your friend." It troubled me that I kept saying things to Edward that were inadvertently assholish. If I was going to be an asshole, I wanted it to be intentional.

"Actually, I'm the one who got him arrested."

**AN: **

**Rec: Reality and Other Inconveniences by OhMyWord **Edward's body was close, too close for sensible thought on my part. He watched me like he was waiting for an opening, my own personal loosening of morals. Twilight - Rated: M - English - Romance/Friendship - Chapters: 31 - Words: 74,251 - Reviews: 962 - Favs: 992 - Follows: 482 - Updated: Mar 10, 2010 - Published: Aug 6, 2009 - Bella, Edward - Complete


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you to everyone who supported this story, nominating it for the Top Five Favorite Fic Dive stories for the month of November at A Different Forest! **

**Thank you to Rochelle Alison for the recommendation!**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 11

'"_I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil."_

"_Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are you not wild to know?"'_

_Jane Austen_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic, _Edward Cullen was conveying Ms. Swan to the family manse when the subject of one James Hunter was raised in conversation._

"You got James arrested?" I asked.

"Well, you know we went to college together," Edward started to explain, his tone suddenly harsh.

"No I didn't know."

"We did. Except I guess that James couldn't really afford the tuition." Edward hit the steering wheel. His sudden display of anger was taking me by surprise. "Which doesn't make sense because he had a scholarship and if that had fallen through then he could have just taken out loans. But junior year of college, I realize that one of my best friends is dealing drugs."

I didn't know what to say.

"And not just marijuana, either," Edward continued. "Hardcore shit. And then it turns out that he's keeping some of that stuff in our apartment. _Our _apartment."

I felt a surge of speed as Edward pressed on the gas.

"He was always having these wild parties and his girlfriend, Maria, was there _all_ of the time. Bitch had fucking followed us from Forks. I told him he needed to get his shit together. We were in school, for Christ's sake. If he hadn't been partying all of the time, he wouldn't have lost his scholarship in the first place. So anyway, when the campus cops bust him, do you know what he does?"

I had never seen Edward this agitated.

"He tries to pin that shit on me and he gets away with it. Fortunately, they just give me a slap on the wrist because they haven't got any real evidence. So I ask James what the fuck he thinks he's doing, and he tells me that I got off once so why not again. Can you believe that?"

Yes. I believed it. James was a monster to me in high school.

Edward snorted. "He is using our apartment to deal drugs and thinks that I'm going to take the fall for him. You're damn right I turned him in. His bitch girlfriend even attacked me. I could have pressed charges but I didn't. And yet _I'_m the asshole. James got out of jail after a while, but went right back in less than a month later for the same thing. They must have had other stuff on him, though, because he still hasn't gotten out."

We were doing almost twenty over the speed limit.

"Please slow down," I begged, gripping my seatbelt.

"What?"

"Slow down."

"Oh." Edward eased up off the gas. "Sorry."

"Do you still talk to James?" I asked uncertainly, wary of upsetting him further.

"That would be a _No_."

"He never apologized?"

"According to him, he did nothing wrong. I'm the one who let him down."

"What a dick," I commiserated, one eye on the speedometer. It seemed strange to me that I was comforting Edward for the treatment that he'd received at the hands of James, when I was the one who used to be on the receiving end of their bullshit. I didn't understand quite what that meant, if anything at all. So I decided to ignore the implications and proceed. _Onto the breech_ and all that.

"Yep."

Edward seemed to have gained control of his temper, so I hazarded a question. "James did have a grudge against you then. If you knew that, why didn't you suspect him for Tanya's murder?"

"He has a grudge _now_. We were best friends when Tanya died."

"And you think this two-faced shit just showed up over night?" I was surprised at Edward's gullibility.

"It took him three years. And he was a drug dealer by then. He changed."

"People don't really change that much."

"Yes they do. _I_'ve changed."

I chose not to comment on that.

"And Alice and Jasper have changed," he added.

My head whipped in his direction. "Alice hasn't changed," I told him with a note of warning in my voice.

He glanced at me, a cautious expression on his face. "Well Jasper has."

I hmmphed.

"You don't think he's changed?" Edward asked.

"He seems the same to me."

"You don't like him."

"Should I?"

"There's no gun to your head."

"He's dating Alice, not me."

"He has some positive qualities."

"If you say so."

"He's got that southern gentleman thing going for him. I thought all women went crazy for that."

"Do I look like a sheep? Running with the herd?" _Southern gentleman_ my ass. But of course I had no intention of admitting the real problem with Jasper, so as per usual, I deflected. "Actually, do you know who looks like a sheep? Jasper. His hair is poofy."

Edward laughed. "What is it with you and Texan hair? You said the same thing about Lauren."

"Did I?" I did.

"I think you're jealous."

"Jealous?"

"Because you live somewhere rainy. You can't get big hair."

"I like flat hair."

Edward laughed some more. "You're prejudiced against southerners."

"I'm equally prejudiced against northerners. I hate everyone equally."

"You _live _in the north and you don't hate flat-haired people."

"I hate flat-haired people who don't wash their hair. And of course I live in the north. Do you know how sunny it is in the south? How warm? There're places where it hardly ever rains and there's just the big open country with no trees to hide you."

"Hide you?"

"You know, from people and things. I don't like to be seen by just anyone."

Edward just shook his head, wisely deciding to drop the subject.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Edward offered me a "snack" when we got to his house, like we were there to work on an afterschool group project. I had to confess that I wasn't hungry, and he kindly refrained from pointing out the evidence of my earlier deception.

He gave me a tour. I kept my hands clasped together and was careful to stand at least two feet away from the walls.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I don't want a guard to come out and yell at me for touching the art work."

He rolled his eyes and showed me the library, the sight of which, I had to confess to myself, was more than a little unexpected. _Fuck rich people._

"You like it," he observed.

"I _love _it," I admitted, my envy overshadowed for the moment by my appreciation for the sheer pageantry of it. I waved my fingers in front of the gleaming green and red bindings, my skin tingling with the desire to touch. A ladder on runners provided access to the volumes at the top. I imagined holding on to the rails of the ladder and flying around the stacks. What dizzying heights.

Edward chuckled. "I can see that."

"You know, they say that a woman gets _ravished_ but that she is also _ravishing_, like it's her fault," I said wistfully.

"What?"

"There are just so many. A person could hardly be blamed. She'd just say that she couldn't help herself. She _had_ to ravish them because they were so _ravishing._"

"I'm pretty sure that my parents will let you borrow any book that you want to read."

Foolish boy. "I don't want to read them, I want to marry them." I spun around, taking it all in. _Whoever married Edward would have a right to this library_. It wasn't fair.

"I'd ask if you want me to leave you alone, but you're actually kind of scaring me right now."

"They're all medical books, right? Or post-1950 Americana. Tell me that they're all boring and not in the least bit desirable. All about flower arranging or toy train design."

"I think it's a little bit of everything, actually. Do you want to take a closer look?"

I forced myself to exercise some restraint. "No. It would be too much. I should go." I started towards the door, my head turned over my shoulder to keep the books in view for as long as possible. Edward followed me. I shut the door behind him.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine." I was okay now that the pretty pretty pretty books were locked away where I couldn't see them. I would just pretend that it was a dream. A nice little dream where I lived in a library and sat in a window seat reading books all day.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Esme and Carlisle Cullen were two of the nicest people I had ever met. Esme was so courteous that, were it not for the fiery locks that graced the scalps of mother and son alike, I would never have believed her capable of producing the creature who'd once made my life so miserable. And while Edward didn't have his father's blond hair, he certainly had his jaw, so one couldn't even take refuge in speculating the interference of some demonic spirit a la _Rosemary's Baby_.

I considered the possibility that the Cullens' exquisite deportment might be a sham, and that every sabbat they indeed danced naked in the graveyard after sacrificing virgins to the great god Pan, but I could see no evidence of it myself, unless such perfection of form and manner was in and of itself suspect. That was probably explanation enough: The gratuitous accumulation of beauty and accomplishments mounting until the point of perversion. Thus, Edward.

"You're so sweet," I said to Esme.

"Nonsense," she replied. "I'm just happy to see that Edward's making time for friends now. He is always so busy working. Never comes home any more. I keep telling him that he needs to find a wife and settle down." She cocked an eyebrow at me.

Cue the awkward.

"What about you Bella," Esme continued, "seeing anyone?"

"Mom, enough already," Edward complained.

"No, not really," I answered lightly, because I had long since learned that carefree ambiguity was much better than a heartfelt _no, not going to happen, not ever_. For the latter always sparked too many questions, like _Why not? _and _Don't you know that the right guy is out there waiting for you?_ and my personal favorite _Don't you want to have children? _Because for some reason, no one thinks it's rude to remind a woman of all of the ways in which society considers her a failure.

"Have you seen the library?" Carlisle generously changed the subject.

"Yes," I smiled, sitting up straighter.

Edward laughed. "Be careful. I think she wants to move in."

Could I move in? No. _It would be so decadent_. I wasn't a hedonist.

"You're the only people I know who own more books than me," I complimented them.

"We try," Esme smirked. "But some of those were passed down."

I sighed. I might not want to _live_ in the eighteenth century, but I would take its books any day.

Dinner was delicious. I had told Edward not to bother his mother with preparing something vegetarian. I would just eat sides. He'd ignored me, annoying me again with a bullshit show of concern for my wellbeing, and Esme served pumpkin gnocci and squash soup, which was basically food porn to me. It was also surprisingly easy to chitchat with her about recipes, and while I didn't know anything about the interior design that seemed to occupy most of her time, a mutual love of seventeenth and eighteenth century art provided enough fodder to keep us occupied while Edward and his father entertained themselves with hospital gossip and the like.

I had expected dinner with Edward's parents to be such an onerous ordeal. It only made sense that guy who'd made high school a living hell would have assholes for parents. Maybe they were just so oblivious that they never realized what kind of man their son was. They didn't even bat an eye when Edward introduced me, which was odd considering that I was the reason that their son wasn't prosecuted for murder. It occurred to me that Edward might have warned them to play nice, but I still thought it was a little strange. What did they think was going on? That we'd accidentally met in Seattle and were now buddy-buddy? Didn't they realize how crazy that sounded? A social reject and the Homecoming King didn't just become best friends over night.

I was probably overthinking this. No doubt they had rules, too, and acknowledging the peculiarity of the situation would give it a credence that they didn't want it to have.

Regardless, they'd been so nice, and the conversation so easy, that I felt like a tool for raising the issue of the murder. I'd no choice though. I wasn't here as Edward's friend. I was here to ask them questions about Tanya.

And that's when I realized that the problem wasn't the disparity between my station and theirs, it was their unwillingness to acknowledge the decade-old incident that had linked their son to me.

"I just don't see why you can't let this go," Esme complained to Edward when I ventured to ask them if they had any lingering suspicions about who might have done it.

"It's not him, it's me," I lied, as I knew Edward hoped I would. "People still look at me with suspicion in their eyes. And I can't help feeling uncomfortable whenever I come back to Forks or go to Port Angeles, wondering if the killer's still there, watching me."

"I'm sorry, but I don't see what we can do to help," Carlisle said.

I shared a glance with Edward. "We were wondering if maybe someone had a grudge against you." I felt like a jerk. "Or against Edward. I mean, whoever did this clearly hated him. He was set up. But they had to know him too. How else could they have arranged everything?"

Carlisle shook his head. "They got the right car and the right hair color. How well did they have to know Edward for that?"

"They had to know him well enough to be really angry at him."

"I thought all of this was over," Esme sighed. "Now you've just dragged Isabella into this all over again."

"I promise, if I don't get anywhere this time, it's over. I promise," Edward replied.

"Do you really mean it?" Carlisle demanded.

"I do." Edward nodded.

Esme and Carlisle gazed at him for a moment. Seemingly convinced, they resigned themselves to the situation.

"So what do you want from us?" Esme asked.

"Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against your family?" I inquired.

"Who would want to hurt us like that?" Carlisle demanded.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe someone in your past. Before Edward was even born."

"That's crazy. Who would wait that long to get revenge? And _revenge_? This isn't _Dallas_."

I shrugged. It sounded ridiculous to me too. "If you can't think of anyone then at least we'll know that we covered all of our bases. Was there ever anyone in your life who seemed violent or a little off? They say serial killers always seem so nice."

Of course, by that standard, Sue Clearwater was putting arsenic in her cookies.

I looked at Carlisle. "You had to have had a few patients that were a trifle _unique_."

"If I did, I certainly couldn't say anything to you about it."

I supposed that was true.

Esme shook her head. "I'm sorry. I want to help. But there's really nothing to tell."

I wasn't willing to give up so easily. "Maybe an old boyfriend?" I guessed, remembering Edward's theory about the waitress' brother. "Someone who was angry that you married Carlisle?" I could see it now—a declaration of undying passion and a vow of revenge flung just as the newly married pair fled the church.

"You're not serious."

"Someone with a temper? I mean, maybe he never hit you, but you thought he could."

Esme glanced at Carlisle, who had crossed his arms. Clucking her tongue, she looked back at Edward. "Do you _promise_ that this is the last time we are going to hear about this?"

"I promise."

She turned towards me. "My first fiancé—"

"You don't have to do this," Carlisle tried to stop her.

"It's worth it if he promises to stop this," Esme explained, her voice pleading. She started again, "My first fiancé's name was Charles. He was violent sometimes. I was stupid and young. I didn't realize just what kind of a man he was until my sister—I never told you about her Edward, I didn't like to talk about it. But you look so much like her that it still hurts sometimes to look at you. Elizabeth confessed to me that she'd had an affair with Charles. I was so brokenhearted. I couldn't believe that the two of them could betray me like that." Esme closed her eyes and shuddered. "In any case, I—got away. I moved to Seattle and didn't hear from my sister after that. I'd cut ties with Charles completely of course, but she was still family. The only family I had left at that point. Our parents had died in a car accident when I was just eighteen and Elizabeth was nineteen. About a year after I left, the police contacted me. They'd found my address on a letter in Elizabeth's purse. She had died giving birth to a daughter. I asked about the baby but she was already gone. Charles had taken her and vanished. I paid for Elizabeth's funeral but I couldn't afford to do anything more about it then. When I married Carlisle, we hired a private investigator to look for the girl. I would have fought Charles for her. I had hospital records to prove to the court what kind of man he was. I would have taken Elizabeth's daughter in and raised her as my own. But the detective didn't have any success. Charles was a horrible man. He hasn't any right to bear a grudge against me. I didn't do anything to him except leave. Unfortunately, that would be enough for a man like him."

Carlisle had moved next to Esme and was holding her hand.

"I have a dead aunt I never knew about? And a cousin? Mom, why didn't you tell me about this before?" Edward asked.

"There was nothing to tell. All that was in the past. It's not part of my life now. And it hurt too much to remember."

Carlisle interjected. "And anyhow, Charles didn't kill Tanya."

"How do you know?" Edward demanded.

"Because he wouldn't have stopped there. He would have kept on going until our lives were completely destroyed."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Edward had agreed that we would take turns driving for the trip back to Seattle, but refused to hand over the keys when it was my turn. Dinner with his parents had agitated him more than I'd realized at first. I wasn't sure if it was the stress of hearing his mother's confession or just being back in Forks or the culmination of everything.

"Driving helps calm my nerves," he said.

"Slow down then," I ordered.

He slowed down.

I was wary to say anything that might upset Edward, but I didn't like the silence. "So what do you think?"

"I think that I'm going to get my detective to find that piece of shit who fucked with my mother."

I thought about that. It seemed to me that Carlisle was right. Charles Masen wouldn't have stopped with just killing Tanya.

Yet I didn't think that Edward would be open to that line of reasoning right at present.

"Maybe it _was _a serial killer," I speculated. "Don't they say that stuff like this takes practice? If this was really someone's first murder, wouldn't it have been messier?"

"I've seen the autopsy results. An amateur could very easily have done it."

"Still, exsanguination isn't exactly the normal way you'd expect someone to kill a person. That kind of murder suggests a real pathology," I said, talking out of my ass. When had I gotten a psych degree?

But it seemed to make sense. Crazy as I was, not even I would want to bleed someone to death. I'd just kill them. Finish it quick.

The thought filled me with revulsion. I never wanted to hate someone that much.

I explained myself. "You would think that they would feel a compulsion to repeat themselves."

"They could be killing animals. They could have started out with animals, too, and gone back to animals after Tanya. As long as they're getting rid of the bodies, no one would know."

Grisly as that sounded, I supposed it was true. The possibilities really were endless.

I said, "Maybe they went to Canada or the Philippines," naming countries at random, "and they're killing people there but no one's connected it back to Port Angeles yet."

"Well if we track down any suspects who went out of the country, we can contact the authorities there."

"Contact the authorities there?"

"Yeah." Edward glanced at me, his face dim in the dashboard lights. "What?"

"It just sounds so official. So serious."

"It is serious."

I didn't respond. I wondered if Edward was telling his mother the truth when he promised to give the case up if we didn't make any progress.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Three hours later, I was pulling out of Edward's parking lot in my truck, driving home.

The last two days had been surreal, to say the least: I slept in Edward Cullen's bed, babbled like a fucking idiot to him about my fucked up childhood and my mother's fucked up paranormal delusions, visited a cabin in the woods that looked like it was the setting for several of my nightmares, interrogated a no-nonsense restaurant manager, learned that my father might have once suspected me of colluding with a murderer, went through my father's creepy _dead files_, misrepresented myself to Sue in a way that was both shameful and unfair, perhaps bonded with Leah, was reminded of my social place in the class of '04 hierarchy by an ex-classmate, was sexually harassed by a knife salesman/ex-classmate, fell in lust with someone else's library, and witnessed a personal and no doubt embarrassing confession made by a woman whose son had once made my life a living hell.

I was feeling sorry for Edward, and I had no idea what to do with that.

We had agreed as to the next steps. Or rather, Edward had informed me as to what we were expected to do now. He was going to contact his detective with all of the new lines of investigation that he thought we'd devised. I was supposed to ruminate on the case. We were going to touch base in several days.

I didn't hold out much hope for my so-called rumination. To be honest, I hadn't much inclination to ruminate at all. For some reason, the further I drove away from Edward, the more agitated I became.

It was probably just a delayed reaction to stress. I wasn't used to so much excitement. I liked my solitude and was usually careful to arrange long breaks between any taxing social engagements.

And feeling guilty for feeling sorry for someone I hated was certainly taxing.

As long as Edward was around, though, I could shift the focus onto him. Not have to think about how I felt. This was his problem, his project. It had nothing to do with me.

Alone, driving home, I had only myself to worry about. I wanted to go to bed, pull the covers over my head, and forget all about cabins in the woods and old grudges and the awful things that people could do to one another.

In the past, whenever faced with adversity, I had always had my books to fall back on. No matter how bad things got, they had been there for me. Shut everyone else out and hole up on my own, for as long as it took for me to convince myself to come out of hiding. I had been telling Edward the truth when I'd said that horror was an escape—the dread and thrill of terror like the pain and release a person addicted to cutting might feel. There was no real danger. Nothing so appalling that it might follow me back into the waking world from the pages of a book.

I wanted to believe that my usual tactics would work—going home and pulling out my Gilchrist or Stoker, and spending all of Sunday buried in research—except that I was afraid that when I got home and tried to go to sleep, I'd close my eyes and see blood pooling on the floor of a cabin and morgue photos and Edward's grinning face from ten years ago morphing into the more somber countenance he seemed to bear these days and then morphing back again, my discomfort with having to confront so many memories being bound up with a bundle of repressed anxiety and hostility, fueled also by a sense of disgust that was probably some primal distaste for death. So irrational. So inescapable.

I needed to get a grip. The last two days hadn't been non-stop nightmares and demons. I was letting my imagination get the better of me. It wasn't as if we were any closer to finding out who killed Tanya, so there certainly wasn't a monster lurking in the shadows, waiting to spring for fear that I might disclose his identity.

I needed something to settle my nerves. Not my standard reading, that wouldn't do. Not Gilchrist nor Stoker nor any of the others.

Pausing at a stop sign, I was struck suddenly by the memory of Collin's Betteredge taking out his copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ whenever he felt troubled. _The Moonstone_, I thought, pulling onto my street. Mr. Betteredge and his calm certainty that there was no problem that couldn't be solved with his trusty Crusoe. I would go to bed with Wilkie Collins that night.

This plan was so comforting that I was smiling as I climbed out of my truck and walked up to my door.

It wasn't until I'd reached the step that I saw the dead animal lying in front of the threshold.

**AN: **

**Rec: Always a Bridesmaid by Missus T **How long can you lust after your best friend's brother before you give up hope? How do you reconcile an attraction for someone you've thought of as a little sister? How long can two people dance around their feelings before they dance together? E/B AH Twilight - Rated: M - English - Romance - Chapters: 19 - Words: 85,675 - Reviews: 671 - Favs: 900 - Follows: 547 - Updated: Nov 23, 2011 - Published: Jul 20, 2011 - Bella, Edward - Complete


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns characters. I own plot.**

Chapter 12

'_Should one of these ghastly figures burst from his confinement, and start up in frightful deformity before me—should the _haggard skeleton_ lift a clattering hand, and point it full in my view—should it open the stiffened jaws, and with a hoarse tremendous murmur break this profound silence—should it accost _me…_' - James Hervey_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic, _our pitiable heroine returned home from a stimulating jaunt to her old home of Forks, to discover another poor lifeless creature upon her doorstep. Oh, oh…_

It wasn't road-kill this time.

I stumbled back, clutching my stomach and trying not to vomit. The smell was fetid—that was it, _fetid_, a noxious gas that seemed to fill all of my pores and made my eyes water.

It was nearly midnight. Not the ideal time for such a discovery. _But necromancers always work in the dark._ The image of a graveyard danced across the back of my mind.

There wasn't a back door to my townhouse. I'd no choice but to go through the front. And I couldn't stomach—I wouldn't do it—just stepping over the thing to get into my house. I couldn't bear the notion of that odious gas pouring through the door and into my _home_. My safe haven.

I dropped my suitcase and purse on the sidewalk and found my shovel, the weight of the tool in my hands a comfort. I imagined swinging it at someone, and scanned the darkened street, but there was no one there, and I was being foolish.

Holding my breath, I struggled to maneuver the body off of my step. It was so heavy. I didn't want to inhale, and so I was taking ragged little breaths, almost crying with the stress.

Several minutes later, it was done. The body in the grass, off of the step. I wanted it across the lawn, but it was too heavy to move any further. I dropped the shovel on the grass next to the body and went back for my things.

I held my breath again as I fumbled with the lock, scrambling in my haste, and almost sobbing, with relief this time, when the door opened and I fell through it, slamming it closed as fast as I could and resting against it as I threw the lock.

I could still smell it.

I ran through the house, grabbing air freshner and candles. I sprayed the entryway and lit the wicks, not even considering the danger of mixing the two. I didn't wait around either, stripping my clothes off as I ran to the bathroom, throwing them on the floor and taking a shower, scrubbing my body and washing my hair two times three times again and again to get the scent out, standing there until the water ran cold.

I went back to the entryway and I could still smell it, so I grabbed incense sticks and burned them too. I opened all of the windows in the back of the townhouse and set up fans in the kitchen to direct the air outside. I emptied a can of coffee grounds on the floor. I sprayed the air freshner until the can was empty.

It was a golden retriever.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

My sleep was fitful that night. I waited until seven o'clock the next morning to call my father.

"Why didn't you call me when you got home?" he asked.

"I didn't want to wake up."

"You woke me up anyways. And it's my job to wake up. I'm your father. Did you take a picture of it?"

"I didn't think of it. The dog's still on my lawn."

"You didn't leave it where you found it?"

"No dad. I _couldn't_."

"This is the second time this has happened?"

"Yeah. It was a squirrel last time."

"Anybody else in your neighborhood getting this kind of treatment?"

"I don't know. I don't really talk to any of my neighbors."

"Don't worry about that. The police can take care of it."

"The police?"

"Unless you want me to come up to Seattle myself, you're going to go straight to the police station this morning and report it."

"I don't think this is the sort of thing to bother them about."

"You'll bother about it if I tell you to," my father ordered. "You're going to talk to Jacob."

"Jacob?"

"Jacob Black."

"He's a policeman?"

"I told you. Remember? I said if you ever need help up there—"

"_Little _Jacob Black?"

My father laughed. "Well, I wouldn't call him that if I were you. But yeah, you used to play with him when you were a kid."

"Which precinct?"

"If you ever bothered to listen to me, you would know that it was _your _precinct."

"Jacob Black, the son of my father's best friend, just happens to be a cop in _my_ precinct?"

"I may or may not have pulled some strings."

"Dad!"

"What? That's how these things work Bells. Now get down there. I'll call him and if he's not on shift, I'll make sure he goes in anyhow."

I didn't know what I'd really expected my father to do when I called him—_make everything better_—but this seemed like going overboard. I didn't want to go to a _police station_ and file a complaint. It was so—so much. They would laugh in my face. Even if Jacob was Billy's son.

I knew my father though. There was no way of getting out of it. Perhaps I shouldn't have called him, but I had needed someone to talk to, and not just Seth or Alice either. I had needed someone with actual authority to make the world right again, at least in my own head.

My father made me promise that I would be at the precinct in an hour.

I took another long shower, not bothering with breakfast, and dressed. Then, holding my breath, I sprinted through the entranceway of my townhouse, out of the door and across the lawn to my truck. Even with my head turned to the side, I caught a glimpse of the dirty gold fur swaying in the wind.

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Little Jacob Black wasn't so little anymore. And he was happier to see me than I'd expected, grinning at me like I'd just told him that he was going to pitch in the World Series. I had the distinct impression that, were we not at his place of employment, he would have picked me up and swung me around.

I still felt foolish about coming. I was sitting next to his desk where it would be all too easy for someone to overhear us. While the precinct was not buzzing with activity, it wasn't exactly bereft of people either. I leaned towards him and dropped my voice. "I know you probably think this is stupid."

"Hell no. This situation's got the makings of a real serious problem."

I felt my eyes widening in spite of my best efforts to keep myself in check. I needed to be reasonable. I wasn't the kind of person who got stalked.

Jacob held up a hand. "Not that it's going to get that far. We'll nip it in the bud right now."

I swallowed. "How? It's not like this is the sort of thing that's going to attract a lot of attention from your boss. I don't care what my father told you. I can't ask you to go out of your way."

"I'm not going out of my way. It's my job. I'd do it anyhow, you know that."

Except that I didn't know that. I hadn't seen Jacob Black for at least a decade. Why should he be so willing to lend me help? Maybe he was just one of those people you hear about. A good person. Like Sue Clearwater. I told myself not to get my hopes up.

Jacob said, "I'll come by later and install some motion activated lights. There're some other things you can do for security, too."

"That's—thank you."

"No problem. Is there anything else?"

I wanted to ask him. But it was too much.

"What is it?" he pressed.  
"Will you help me bury the dog?"

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I waited until Jacob had already dug the hole and tipped the dog inside before pointing out that he seemed awfully young to be a detective. He became a trifle defensive—proving, I thought, that my father had had more than a little to do with the promotion than was entirely appropriate—but he smiled when I gave him the apple cake that I'd made to thank him for his efforts. After he left, I called my dad, who corrected my assumption, telling me that during Jacob's second year on the force he had saved a state senator's daughter, who had been attacked by a serial rapist. If anything deserved to be rewarded by rapid acceleration through the ranks, I supposed that did.

A week later, everything had returned to normal. For the most part.

My entryway no longer seemed to reek. Personally, I couldn't escape the sensation of a lingering odor, but in a terrible abuse of friendship, I'd invited Alice and Seth over for dinner to see if they noticed anything.

"Have you been burning incense?" Seth asked.

I didn't tell them about the dog. We talked instead about Seth's gallery opening. He said that it was coming along swimmingly. He was fairly trembling with excitement.

At the university, Jasper was still trying too hard to be my friend. I didn't understand why he was bothering. We could certainly work together without being friends and I didn't tell Alice what to do. It occurred to me that I would rather he sass me back. At least then my latent hostility would come off as jest and I wouldn't have to feel guilty about being an asshole. If my life were a rom-com, we would have had a heart-to-heart and I would have demanded an apology for how he'd once treated me and he would have expressed heartfelt sorrow and I would have forgiven him. As my life was not a rom-com and I had no intention of letting Jasper think that I gave a shit what he thought and, more importantly, had no intention of ever forgiving him, none of that happened. Naysayers will tell you that when you forgive someone it's really for yourself. Bullshit. My grudge cost me nothing. It was Jasper's fucking incessant attempts to make nice that were causing the current problem.

Jasper didn't ask me about Edward and I didn't bring him up either. I wondered if Jasper even knew that we'd gone to Forks.

Left to my own devices one morning at home, and feeling less than enthused about the prospect of going through the mountains of research that I'd collected on Victorian crime stats, I sat down at my computer and idly began conducting internet searches for unsolved murders in the state of Washington.

What I found made me sick.

Unable to take it anymore, I searched for the cabin instead, for its history. Jung had argued that places could be haunted, the gloomy atmosphere almost provoking the associated violence, a natural response to the environment rather than any work of the supernatural. But there weren't any records of real violence associated with the cabin.

I went back further, widening my scope to include the region as a whole. I knew, of course, that the Quileute had first come into contact with Europeans in the late 1700s, when the natives had enslaved Spanish, British and Russian seamen. It wasn't until after 1885 that the natives began moving onto the reservation, which was shortly thereafter burned down by a settler who wanted the land for himself.

I read again that story about the supposed pirate treasure. Spaniards had begun exploring the Pacific Coast in the late 1500s, looking for the Northwest Passage. Francis Drake himself was rumored to have gone as far north as British Columbia. But there was no reason for pirates to really operate this far north. The Spanish operations were much further south, so there was probably little credence to the story about the two pirate brothers who'd sail here to hide the treasure that they had taken from the Spanish. The remains of the monastery where the brothers had supposedly stopped over still stood on Rock Island a mile off of the coast. Legend said that the pirates had paid off the monks to pray for their souls.

The legend also said that the brothers had fallen in love with a Quileute woman, and had killed each other in fits of jealousy. Their treasure was supposed to be buried somewhere on Quileute lands, or at least what would have been Quileute lands at the time.

Others claimed that the treasure was buried somewhere in the ruins of the Rock Island monastery, which had been wiped out by a typhoon. The church still owned the island but had done nothing to rebuild. The place was barely half-a-mile in diameter and was the sort of harsh environment that could only attract two kinds of people: Masochists seeking a life of austerity and treasure hunters. Despite the name, the island was mostly marshland, and almost every year someone accidentally drowned while looking for the treasure. The authorities would track the body down by looking for the metal detector.

I Googled the island, and found an image taken from some distance at night, the island a dark mass in the glittering sea, the ruins of the monastery reduced to a stone archway and some damaged columns like broken skeletal fingers reaching up from the grave, standing crooked against the brilliant light of the moon.

Still trying to forget all about modern-day bludgeonings, rapes and stabbings, I threw myself into conspiracy theories about treasure maps and buried wealth.

Feeling braver after lunch, I looked again for crimes committed in the region of Port Angeles, but limited my search to the early twentieth century and years prior, the decades separating me from the violence in question serving as a palliative to horror.

The most interesting case that I found involved a pub owner who was found shot to death in his home. The police suspected his business partner, but they knew that the pub owner had been killed sometime after six o'clock in the morning, because either he or the killer had brought in the morning paper, and the business partner had an alibi from five o'clock that morning until well after one o'clock in the afternoon, which was when the body was discovered. Finally, someone—probably a bored policeman who was supposed to be doing something else entirely—realized that the newspaper in question wasn't quite right. There was an advertisement at the bottom of Page 2 which had been pulled at the last minute (no reason was given for pulling the advertisement and I assumed that only some inadvertent yet blatant vulgar sexual innuendo could excuse stopping the presses after they'd started running). The police went to the Port Angeles newspaper, found the fellow in charge of the printing, confirmed that one copy had indeed been run with the advertisement, but that no one knew what had happened to that copy. The police tracked down the boys in charge of delivering the papers to all of the houses. The boy assigned to the deceased's neighborhood swore on his grandmother's grave that he'd delivered the paper to the old curmudgeon, same as always. The police searched the deceased's property and couldn't find the second paper anywhere, so they went back to the boy and questioned him again. At last, the boy, in a fit of temper to which I could easily relate having once been under police scrutiny myself, said that he was sure he'd delivered the paper because the old geezer was always refusing to pay his bill, saying that the boy wasn't delivering the paper like he should, which was a bold faced lie, because the boy always delivered his papers, every one of them, and maybe the neighbor was stealing them, because she didn't take the paper, and that wasn't the boy's fault was it? So the police went to the neighbor, and sure enough, she _had_ taken the paper that morning, and so what? Were they going to arrest her for being a thief? They arrested the business partner instead. He had a nephew at the newspaper, a young man who was a little slow and couldn't possibly have understood why it might have been a mistake to hand over that misprint of the paper when his uncle brought him that late snack at work the night before the murder.

Aside from that case, murders as such weren't common in the Port Angeles region.

So if there wasn't something haunted about this stretch of land that attracted murder, then what was it?

Whoever had killed Tanya had to have known that the cabin would be empty. But how? I doubted that someone had been left with a shotgun to ward off anyone who might be passing by. So the cabin had been chosen by chance and if it hadn't been free, the killer would have gone somewhere else and, in any case, were lucky that no one had interrupted them in the midst of the murder.

So much for the place of the crime having some bearing on the case.

I went back to the means of the crime. So-called vampire fetishes aside, I didn't buy that there any sort of occult connection. And there were no signs of sexual activity. So either the murderer wasn't one of Tanya's lovers or else she'd died before matters could go that far. Perhaps it was just a game.

How could anyone be so callous?

I tried to remember myself at that age. Could I have been capable of doing something so carelessly vicious at the time? I'd been fickle, surely. I remembered occasionally thinking to myself that anything was worth it, if only I could avoid another day in that town. I'd hated my bullies, but could I have ever killed one of them? In a flash of anger, maybe, could I have struck one of them, and killed the person by accident?

Perhaps. I was honest enough to admit that. Even if they'd never laid a hand on me, I remembered the way my hands would ball into fists, wishing that I could punch them in the face as I listened to their jeering voices.

But that would have been the work of an instant. Whoever had killed Tanya had taken their time. It took several minutes for someone to bleed to death. Several long minutes during which no one called the police, no one tried to stop the bleeding, no one felt any regret. It wasn't an accident.

I had been sitting on Charlie's couch, huddled in a blanket and trying to forget everything that had happened with Renee and Phil in Florida, idly flipping through the channels looking for something to distract me, when I landed on a news report about Edward's arrest.

My fingers froze on the remote control. My breath stopped in my chest.

Panic. An instinctual animal response that I felt anytime that Edward Cullen or Tanya Denali would appear at the far end of the hallway in school or their laughter would waft across a parking lot.

A stupid response. They didn't matter to me anymore. I was going away to college and no one from Forks High was going with me, or at least not to the same school.

A numb feeling began settling into my limbs as I listened to the reporter describe the means of Tanya's murder.

I realized that I would never have to see Tanya again. I felt a kind of relief. I couldn't deny having felt some sort of relief, but it wasn't joy.

I swallowed hard, watching the footage of Edward being led to and from the Port Angeles police station in handcuffs, the panicky feeling in my chest spiraling out of control. I had difficulty even concentrating on the rest of the news report.

Afterwards, I tried to put it out of my mind, deciding that it had nothing to do with me. I briefly considered calling Alice to ask her about it, but I'd spoken to Alice only once or twice over the summer—I'd always hated talking over the phone—and she hadn't mentioned anything about the murder. I'd told her about coming home early, explaining that Renee and Phil were busy with work and that I'd hated the weather. She'd told me about her cousins in Mississippi. We had never enjoyed gossiping about our classmates, preferring to pretend instead that they just didn't exist. So why should I break that rule now, just because one of them was dead and another one had been charged with her murder? I was above such petty concerns, wasn't I?

The next day, the story was repeated in a more abbreviated format. I was able to pay a little more attention this time.

At first, I didn't even notice it. Such a small detail, anyhow. Or at least it was to me, a casual bystander.

The date and time of the murder.

I was sure that they'd gotten it wrong. That was all. It was confusing, to be sure, but not unbelievable.

So, that night, just to be sure, I asked Charlie about it.

"Why do you want to know about that?" he asked.

We were sitting at the table eating dinner. I'd made stroganoff, his favorite, with pre-cooked beef for his portion, since asking a vegetarian to cook something that she won't taste is like asking for food poisoning.

My father and I had what I later came to realize was a strange relationship. We weren't what other families would consider close. We rarely spoke and never embraced. Even at the age of twenty-eight, ten years later, I had never told him that I loved him or heard him offer the sentiment himself.

But actions always spoke louder than words to me. Charlie took care of me. And he never hurt me. That was more than enough.

Besides, we'd improved a great deal since my arrival to Forks at the age of fourteen. Charlie had seemed uncertain of me at first, being wary of this teenaged creature suddenly inhabiting his space, and so he'd adopted a watch and wait strategy. That was fine with me since I wasn't entirely comfortable around him either. I'd never lived full-time with a man and the ones with whom I'd lived on a temporary basis hadn't exactly left a positive impression. I was sixteen before I stopped leaving a chair propped up against my door at night. _At least you _have_ a bedroom_, I'd chastised myself when I finally broke myself of the habit.

Charlie hadn't seemed surprised when I cut short my last visit to Renee. And he hadn't asked any questions. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he should have been asking questions all along. About my life with Renee. About what was going on in school.

Yet what good did it do to blame your parents for your troubles? By his own example, Charlie had taught me a valuable lesson in stoicism. _Ignore other people and just keep going_. If other people weren't going to be there for me, why should I care what they thought?

That night, though, sitting at the dining room table, I was still more of a basket-case than a stoic. I was hardly sure of myself or about my interest in Edward Cullen's case. I just wanted to be sure.

So when Charlie asked me why I was interested, I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. It's just the news reporter got something wrong."

"What do you mean he got something wrong?"

"It was a _she_. She said that Tanya was killed at 5 o'clock the night before I left for Florida. But that can't be right, because I saw Edward in the woods in La Push around that time. He couldn't have made it all the way to Port Angeles and back again."

Charlie's fork fell to the plate with a clatter.

Did I ever consider the possibility of letting Edward go to jail? Once Charlie knew what I'd seen, keeping my mouth shut wasn't an option. But if Charlie had been in the dark, would I have gone to the police of my own accord?

For a split second, maybe, I would have considered saying nothing. But I would have gone eventually.

I wanted to believe that.

I would have given Edward his alibi if only because it was the truth. It didn't matter how he'd treated me in the past. I was better than him.

The interrogations at the Port Angeles police station were humiliating. Charlie was friends with everyone on the force in Port Angeles, so they kept apologizing to him as they led me away for questioning, but that didn't stop them from asking me how many times I'd enjoyed sexual relations with Edward—_Maybe it wasn't sex, _they reasoned,_ but you let him feel you up didn't you?_—or suggesting that I was so desperate for Edward's affections that I was willing to perjure myself on his behalf. They made me go over my timeline again and again. _Motherfuckers_. The memory of that still made me boil. Who the fuck were they to imply that I'd made a mistake? I was smart goddamnit. My intelligence was, in fact, the one thing that I had going for me. I didn't make mistakes. I'd seen Edward Cullen in the meadow twice that day, before and after Tanya was murdered. There was no way that he could have made it to Port Angeles and back in that time.

I had to return for questioning at least four times. They didn't even do me the courtesy of telling me in person that they'd finally accepted my statement. I had to hear on the news that they were dropping the charges against Edward.

I saw Edward again, of course, that day in the diner when Renee saw fit to swoop into town on her broomstick, but Charlie never mentioned the case to me. Alice asked me about it only once, and I'd explained. She had pursed her lips and nodded, not asking any questions. She had her own problems at the time and anyhow, that was our gift to each other. We didn't push.

Reflecting back on the case now, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the list of possible suspects. Much as I loathed psychological profiling, I wondered if it might help whittle down the list. _What kind of a person is capable of murder?_ I was sure that there were a few people so devoted to pacifism that they could never commit murder, but otherwise anyone might be a murderer. There were just so many possible motives. Self-defense. Defense of someone else. Vengeance. Anger.

The creatures that made Forks High such a nightmare for me certainly seemed capable of violence. After all, someone had stabbed Eric that night at First Beach, and if the photos from that party were somehow faked, then the so-called "brat pack" would no longer have their alibis. But could they really have killed Tanya? Could they have turned on one of their own? I pictured them, like mice in an overcrowded cage, cannibalizing one another. I was too prejudiced to be objective.

I returned to the notion that the murder had been an accident. I could see the "brat pack" playing a game, like all of the games that they'd played with me, and not realizing that she was losing too much blood, not knowing what to do when they realized that she was dead. And being too afraid—too _cowardly_—to call 911.

Not every killer acted out of passion or caprice though. Perhaps Tanya's murder was the work of some Leopold and Loeb. The crime of an apathetic sociopath merely testing a hypothesis: The possibility of a perfect crime.

If so, it wasn't Mike or anyone else from the "brat pack."

But how could you ever claim to really know another person? Who was I to say that Mike Newton didn't have the psychology or the intellect to plan and carry out a perfect murder?

For all I knew, Esme Cullen herself could be the murderer. She had red hair, after all. Carlisle could have covered for her, claiming that she was with him at the time of the murder.

Perhaps Carlisle had been having an affair with Tanya and Esme cracked. Was a woman capable of subduing Tanya and killing her?

That was insane, of course. Edward's mother couldn't be a killer. His father couldn't have slept with Tanya.

I'd much rather suspect Aro Denali. One daughter had been sleeping around until she was murdered, another became a stripper, and a third was in a mental institution. Far be it from me to judge anyone, but did all of that suggest dysfunction? Why hadn't Edward noticed that something was off about them? Had he just been too horny to notice the signs? If so, he was far more selfish than even I'd suspected.

Whoever the killer was, they knew Edward. Of that, I was certain. It was simply too much of a coincidence that a car that looked just like his, and being driven by someone who looked just like him, was seen picking up Tanya.

Had Aro Denali tried to set Edward up for his own daughter's murder? Had he discovered Tanya's proclivity for dallying with other men? Had he decided that Edward was to blame?

Was Aro running a prostitution ring starring his own daughter? Had Tanya decided that she wanted out? Had Aro blamed Edward for his daughter's desire to turn over a new leaf?

I remembered everything that my mother had taught me about pedophiles. I remembered Phil.

My mother had grown up in Forks. She probably went to school with Aro.

And that was as far as I got in my thinking when I decided that it was all too much.

I didn't want to rehash the past. I still felt slightly nauseous whenever I thought back to the news stories I'd come across when I'd first started my research that morning. I was a hypocrite, studying violence through the course of my work but only when denuded of any gruesome details. I didn't want to know exactly how many blows it had taken to beat a woman's skull in or how her son had cried out in plaintive wails as he watched his mother die.

I began to wonder if I should tell Edward that I wasn't going to help him anymore.

Of course, because there was to be no rest for the weary, Edward called me that night to say that his private detective had been "debriefed" and was following up on what we'd found. It might be a while before we heard anything back. In the meantime, Edward wanted to know when I was free to come over. He wanted to make a list of all the men in Forks and Port Angeles who might have been sleeping with Tanya. I thought that limiting it to Forks and Port Angeles was being generous, but as it was, the list was already going to be too long. Did he really think that we were going to question all of them?

I told Edward that I was busy with midterms and that I would get back to him.

My students were still complaining that the readings were too lengthy and convoluted. _Why didn't Dr. Seuss write history books?_ I was sad to see that Bree Tanner, one of the students who'd come to my office hours earlier in the semester, appeared to have lost interest in the course. She hadn't withdrawn, but I hadn't seen her in lecture for a while. It was always disappointing to see a promising student give up. I'd begun to look forward to her comments in class, and while her essays weren't written with any real elegance, they were at least interesting.

Edward called me again a few days later, wisely not bothering to wait for me to follow up on my promise. Thanks to Jessica, he'd managed to get in touch with Lauren-of-the-big-hair. He tried to make me feel sorry for him—having to endure conversation with the twin airheads—until I reminded him that _he_ was the one who was their friend in high school, a charge which he tried to deny; we agreed to disagree. He admitted telling Lauren that he might just be swinging by Dallas in the near future, whoring himself out for the greater good, and in return got her to give him a few more names from Tanya's dance card: Mr. Banner (our biology teacher? _ugh_), a mailman, a bus boy at _The Lodge_ and one of my father's own deputies.

In addition to the names that Kate had already given us—Mike Newton's father, the guy who ran the grocery store, and the gas station attendant—that gave us a total of seven. Edward's PI was still working on the name of the gas station attendant (it occurred to me that this PI was probably putting his kid through college on Edward's dime). Edward wanted to talk to the other members of the Rotary Club to confirm that they'd really dined at _The Lodge_ the night of Tanya's murder, as this dinner gave two of the suspects an alibi. But he had already questioned the employees of _The Lodge_ about the payphone behind the restaurant being used to report Tanya's death, so that was another bridge burned and I was going to have to do the questioning about the Rotary Club meeting there that night.

Edward also wanted me to question Mr. Banner.

"Why don't we just give these named to my dad and let the police do the questioning?" I asked.

"So they can drop the ball again? Besides, I think you'll have more luck," Edward said.

"And I'm supposed to say what, 'Hey Mr. Banner, this is really creepy, but I heard you were fucking one of your students and oh, by the way, do you have an alibi for the night she died?'"

"I already know that he had an alibi. There was some faculty softball game that night. His picture was in the paper. You can't possibly imagine how long my list of suspects was in the beginning. I already crossed him off."

I was going to remind him that he'd left all of his friends off that supposedly exhaustive list of suspects, but he didn't give me a chance.

"Besides, do you really think that I would let you anywhere near him if I thought that there was a chance that he did it? I just want him to give up the names of anyone else she might have been involved with. And if he won't tell us, we'll threaten him with the cops."

"Why don't you just question him by yourself? I trust you. I'm sure you'll do swell."

"Banner hated me. His class was a fucking joke. Don't you remember it?"

I remembered it. I remembered that lab table and all of those lab projects that I shared with Edward. A daily dose of hell.

Edward didn't bother waiting for my confirmation. "He thinks that I was a prick. I was. But he deserved it. Anyhow, you're the police chief's daughter. Everyone liked you. They all think that I'm the guy who got away with murder."

"No one liked me. And I don't like talking to people."

"The only reason you weren't valedictorian is because they stopped doing class rankings. And I don't buy this antisocial bullshit either. You talk to people all of the time. You're talking to me right now. You're a teacher."

"That's different." It _was_ bullshit about the class ranking thing though.

"How?"

"You won't leave me alone. I have no choice but to talk to you. Irene and that waitress were bad enough. I don't think that I can question anyone else. I study history because dead people can't talk back." I felt ill just thinking about walking back into that biology classroom. "I have social anxiety disorder."

Edward wasn't convinced. "I find that hard to believe. You don't take any of my shit."

"If I could, I would live in a lighthouse and never see anyone."

"Why would you want to do that?" He seemed truly perplexed. No one ever got this. Everything was always so easy for them.

"It's just so exhausting. Dealing with people."

"I never would have thought that. I mean, yeah, sometimes you seem stressed out. But I thought that was because you don't like me. You don't seem afraid of anything. You got a fucking lap dance."

"I _don't_ like you. I don't like _anyone_. But it doesn't matter. I'm just following the rules."

"The rules?" Edward asked.

"Of social etiquette."

"So you pretend to like people just because you don't want to seem rude?"

I thought he was being intentionally naïve. "Please, like you aren't pretending with me right now."

"I'm not pretending."

"Whatever." This conversation had taken a turn for the strange. _Because talking about your old biology teacher's sexual proclivities isn't weird._

"Why bother pretending? I don't see why you aren't just honest with everyone."

"And not talk to anyone? I did that once. It didn't go well."

"You mean high school?"

"Ha! No. No one wanted to talk to me in high school. There's a difference between people not talking to you and you not talking to them." I should have ended this conversation already.

"When then?" Edward pressed.

I wished we could just drop it. Surely, the rules of etiquette no longer applied. His questions were invasive. "My first couple of years of undergrad." I would just leave it at that. "I wasn't very social." There. That explained it. No need to mention the _Mountains of Madness._

"Why not? What about Alice?"

I shook my head, but what did it matter anyhow? I might as well tell him the truth. It wasn't as if we were friends. In a few months, we'd go back to be being perfect strangers. So what if he told Jasper? I imagined Jasper running around the department calling me a lunatic. Everyone already knew as much. "Alice was in New York. She didn't come back until sophomore year. Before that, I didn't want to talk to anyone. If they left me alone, that was more than enough for me."

"But you're obviously more social now. You've got friends."

"I've got _acquaintances_," I corrected.

"Alice isn't a friend? What about the other people you mention? And the ones at that happy hour?"

"I don't know. How do you define a _friend_? They're just people I know."

"Even Alice?"

"Alice is Alice," I said, remembering what she was like when I moved to Forks. She might not have been popular, but she wasn't _un_popular either. At least, not until she met me.

She had to put up with a lot of shit because of me. So I put up with a lot of shit because of her. I owed her.

"What does that mean?" Edward asked.

I shrugged, even though he couldn't see it. How could I possibly explain it?

Edward started again, "About high school, all that stuff, I never said—"

"I don't want to talk about it," I cut him off.

"Why not?"

"It's done and over with. It doesn't matter." If he tried to apologize, I would reach through the phone and murder him. Self-defense. He was not allowed to apologize.

"That's clearly not true. I mean, I know that I was an asshole."

"Why the fuck should I care about that now?"

"You deserve an apology."

"What good would that do me?"

"I don't know. Closure?"

"_Closure?_" I asked.

"You know, old wounds."

"_Old wounds?_"

"I'm clearly pissing you off and I don't mean to."

"I'm just trying to understand why the fuck you think I give a shit about anything you have to say to me. Do you think that I've been sitting around all this time waiting for you to come back into my life?"

"No, I—"

"Do I _look_ like Alice? I don't give a shit what you think of me."

"That's obvious."

"Do you think that there's something _wrong_ with me that you think you can fix?"

"No."

"Then what the fuck?"

"It's what's wrong with _me_. It's what _I _owe."

I didn't respond.

"I'm a narcissist, remember?" Edward snorted softly, clearly trying to dispel the tension. "Do you really think that's true? That nothing that happened to either of us in high school matters?"

"Of course it's true. It was ten years ago. If we haven't gotten over it by now, then there would definitely be something wrong with us." Realizing that I'd just implied that there was something wrong with Edward for still dwelling on a decade-old murder, I deflected by pretending that I was only talking about myself, which was in fact the truth insofar as I really only cared about myself. Edward's obsessions were his problem. "Honestly, I hardly remember any of it." I remembered hiding in the bathroom and scurrying through the halls and avoiding the cafeteria at all cost. Otherwise, it was just a gray-black miasma. Nothing. I couldn't even recall the things they'd said. For the most part. "Besides, we probably deserved it."

There was a beat of silence. "I don't—you're not serious. What do you mean?"

"There's a pecking order. There always is. That's just the natural way of things. You were an asshole. Someone had to be." And it was all too easy to suspect an asshole of murder, though to be honest I supposed that Edward only seemed like an asshole to me and a few select other individuals. Everyone else thought that he was a golden boy. "And I wasn't a hundred percent either. I could have done something different, and I didn't." What good did it do to blame other people for your problems? You can't control other people. You can only control yourself.

It occurred to me that, by the same logic, Edward could have _chosen_ not to be an asshole. But hypotheticals were pointless.

"Done something?" Edward asked, his tone disbelieving. "What do you mean?"

"Whatever—whatever it would have taken." I could have done something different. I was sure of it. Dressed differently, walked differently, spoken differently. Different skin, different everything. Anything to make them leave me alone. If I'd tried, to change I wondered if they would have let me get away with it. Or would they have just gone on treating me the same way? "Which is stupid of course. The past is the past. And I couldn't have changed. Not then. It was just too hard. How could I pretend to be someone else when I felt like I was being pulled in a thousand different directions?" Then, realizing how that sounded, I tried to explain in a way that didn't make me sound crazy. "I was just young, you know. They say that you don't know yourself at that age. I always felt like—" I didn't want to say it.

"Like what?"

_Like I was coming apart at the seams._ I couldn't say that.

I considered changing the subject, but I was the one responsible for bringing it up, and changing the subject would be like admitting that it still mattered. "There was stuff with my mother. It doesn't matter now. But there was. I don't blame her for how I was in Forks. Other people have shitty parents and they don't react the way I did. If I could do it all over again, I wouldn't do it the same way. _Fake it 'till you make it_ and all that."

"We could have been friends?"

I choked. "Are you kidding me?" The incongruity of his suggested alliance was nothing short of comical. And grotesque.

Never in a million years could I have ever been friends with a monster like him. Joined in on his games and done to others what he'd done to me? No. I wanted to believe that I couldn't.

But would I have known any better, if I hadn't been on the receiving end myself?

"I'm sor—" Edward started again.

"I don't want to talk about it," I interrupted.

"I was a dick."

"What's the point of bringing that up now?"

"So that we can move past it."

"To what end?"

There was a long pause. "So that we can be friends," Edward said at last hesitantly and, if I was being honest, lamely.

I blinked.

I held the phone away from my ear and looked down at it.

I blinked again.

I put the phone back up to my ear and answered. "We can't be friends."

"Why not?"

_The dissimilarity of our forms and natures is too profound a gap to ever be bridged. _"We don't have anything in common," I pointed out, desperate to change the subject. We couldn't be anything to each other. We were strangers. Practically strangers.

But if he insisted on knowing why that had to be the case, I would have to tell him—and I couldn't do that—because he _would_ apologize—and I couldn't let him do that—because I would have to forgive him. That's what the rules said—you had to forgive people who asked for forgiveness. Then you were bound. Like friends. And I couldn't do that.

"That's not true," he argued. "We have high school."

Was he out of his fucking mind? "We had a completely different experience of high school."

"We both live in Seattle now."

"We live in completely different neighborhoods."

"We're both successful professionals."

"Medicine is boring and you don't know anything about history."

"I'm still reading your book. We can hang out together."

"Just what would 'hanging out' constitute? I doubt that we enjoy doing the same things."

"What do you enjoy doing?"

"Reading. Not talking to people. Watching horror movies."

"I am critically behind on my horror movie viewing. You could get me up to speed."

I considered my options. We simply couldn't continue down this path. I could either tell him to go fuck himself and hang up—which meant acknowledging that he had the power to distress me still—or lie.

_Subterfuge!_ It was not my forte but Edward need only believe me long enough for me to escape this conversation.

"I suppose so," I said slowly, deciding—because it was reassuring to do so—that he was being genuine. Feigning acceptance was easier than resistance anyhow. Over the years, I had found that people frequently lied about their intentions to engage in social interaction. It was practically one of the rules of etiquette that you do so. And it was uncouth to draw attention to the deceit, as it went a long way towards preserving the social fabric.

"What do you do when you're hanging out with your other friends?"

"Whatever they feel like doing," I answered stupidly, confused by his question. Why was he pursuing this line of conversation? He was supposed to say that he looked forward to 'hanging out' with me and I was supposed to say "sure" and then we were supposed to hang up. And ideally never speak again, the quest to find Tanya's killer be damned.

"You seem pretty opinionated to be so flexible."

"I only care about things that matter." And caring about others too frequently invited disappointment. Passive disinterest was a much better approach. Thus, I was hardly one to veto a plan and was never the one to suggest an outing, unless it happened to coincide with one of the few events that I made a special effort to observe, like a birthday or an anniversary, convenient as these occasions were to the maintenance of the social niceties. Anything that I really cared about I did alone. Like going to antiquarian book shows.

"What do you like to do on a date?" he asked.

_What do I what?!_

**AN: **

**Thank you to everyone who has suggested a theory on the killer! Your minds are so deliciously devious!**

**The Washington pirates and Rock Island are my own invention. Wikipedia says Washington State has experienced typhoon force winds. Whether or not it could take out a monastery I don't know. **

**Rec: It Must Have Been the Mistletoe by KristenLynn **Edward has avoided Bella—and her annoying crush—for three years. This year, an encounter under the mistletoe at the Chief's Christmas Eve party changes everything, in ways neither of them expected. Under the Mistletoe contest continuation, NOW COMPLETE Twilight - Rated: M - English - Romance - Chapters: 7 - Words: 32,234 - Reviews: 366 - Favs: 460 - Follows: 205 - Updated: Jan 26, 2011 - Published: Dec 24, 2010 - Edward, Bella – Complete

**Is there any good Kwanza/Hanukah fanfiction? I love the scene in **_**This is not my life**_** where Renee comes to Thanksgiving decked out in native clothes and cornstalks. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you to everyone who is reading. My apologies if I have not yet replied to your review. I will do so asap. If you reviewed as a Guest, please sign in so that I have a reply link to which to send your outtake.**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 13

'_Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard,_

_And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,_

_Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard_

_To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stone'_

_Keats_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic, _one Edward Cullen inquired into the dating habits of our heroine. She was, to say the least, shocked at his effrontery._

I shook my head, happy that this conversation was being conducted via telephone and not face-to-face. Was Edward Cullen really asking me about my dating habits? "I don't date," I said.

"Ever?" Edward was starting to go above and beyond the normal level of inquisitiveness.

"I don't like people," I reminded him. _And people don't like me._ Assholes.

"But if you ever met _someone_—" Edward trailed off. The way that he stressed the gender neutral nature of the word _someone_ hadn't escaped my notice. Now _he_ was the asshole.

"Someone psychotic enough to be interested in a person like me?" There may have been a slight tinge of hostility in my voice.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." I remembered _that_ much from high school at least. _Lesbo, lesbo_, they'd chanted. Lest I have any doubt that no one of the opposite sex could ever find me attractive.

"I'm not trying to start a fight."

"Then what the hell are you doing?" _I mean, what the fuck?_ He said that he wanted to be friends—_and how junior high was a request like that anyhow?_—and then he started with this bullshit?

"I just wondered if you were seeing anyone," Edward hedged.

"No, I haven't found a guy delusional enough to want me." _That's right, a _guy_, asshole. So go ahead and point out that I'm wasting my time with the human species and should just put in a request now for my blow-up doll husband._ "But if you know of anyone with vision problems or a penchant for freaks, let me know."

"That's not what the fuck I meant," Edward snapped.

"Whatever," I huffed. If nothing else, my recently renewed use of the term _Whatever_ had more than convinced me of Generation X's role as indispensable, if not meaningful, contributors to society.

"If you weren't so sensitive—"

"_I_'m sensitive?" Okay, I was. I was also just calling it the way that it was.

"I only want to know more about you."

"There's nothing to know. I'm boring."

"I know that's not the case. And you can ask me, you know."

"Ask you what?" _How many kittens he drowned on the way to work each morning?_

"Questions about me. What I like doing. If I'm seeing anyone."

Why on earth would I want to know about that? "I don't ask questions. I don't do that."

"You don't ask your friends about their lives?"

"I only ask questions that I already know the answers to. If they want to volunteer something, it's up to them. I don't go around invading their privacy."

"I didn't realize that I was invading your privacy. If it makes you feel better, I'm not seeing anyone either."

"I—" I sputtered. "That's none of my business."

"Friends know things like that about each other."

"I don't have friends," I reminded him quickly.

"_Acquaintances _know things like that."

"Hmph." I was not impressed.

"Are we?" he asked.

"Are we what?"

"Acquaintances?"

I panicked, which was quite impressive considering that I was already in panic overdrive. "You're a _person I know_. You have to work your way up to _acquaintance_."

"Oh, I will," Edward gloated. "I'm an overachiever."

I didn't want him to get ahead of himself. "I don't grade on a curve. And you have a lot to make up for." But since I wasn't even letting him talk about the things that he had to make up for, just bringing it up had been a mistake, so I didn't see how he was ever going to succeed, and I wasn't going to let him. I wasn't.

"I'm looking forward to it."

I didn't know how to respond to that. So I hastily bid him a goodnight and hung up.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

A few days later, Embry and Quil called to tell me that they had completed their casual questioning of the La Push residents. They didn't think much of my theory about Tanya finding the pirate gold and the murderer killing her to keep the location a secret.

"Wouldn't that make _us_ the most likely suspects?" Embry asked.

Oh.

My hastily offered apology was accepted, and all was well.

In the meantime, I had begun to notice a pattern. Edward would call every other night, sometimes two nights in a row, ostensibly to discuss the progress of the investigation, though as no progress was being made, our discussions about the case generally revolved around, on the one hand, his complaints that the police had overlooked important clues (namely the obvious guilt of Eric, Demetri and Felix—Edward apparently taking Sherman's approach to the subject: _Throw them all in jail and let God sort it out_) and, on the other hand, the 'crackpot theories' (in Edward's words) that I offered up, as I had chosen to say nothing of my suspicions involving pedophilia rings and the like, selfishly preferring the absurd to more realistic options too gross to contemplate.

I speculated, for instance, that Tanya was a drug mule in league with the mailman, and had been taken down by a Columbian cartel as a warning to the Russians. Edward pointed out that marijuana was the worst that she'd ever done and I reminded him that dealers never do their own merchandise. Then I remembered James and realized that drugs were probably a sore issue for Edward and I should just drop it. Drug mules have to travel, Edward informed me, and Tanya didn't do much of that. I let it go at that even though it occurred to me that all of her "sleeping around" could very well have been a cover for dealing.

Maybe, I said, she had been mistaken for someone else by the murderer. Maybe she just looked like the intended victim. _Who? _Edward asked. I thought for a moment, then suggested a long lost twin, an heir to a pharmaceutical fortune in the East. Edward's silence told me what he thought of that.

Oh, this one was even better, I said, maybe Tanya had been on the run from the mob. Her mother was supposed to be dead right? Maybe her mother was actually in jail and the Denalis were in the witness protection program. Her mother was a mob princess (is that what they called them?) and Tanya had been the key witness in putting her away at the tender age of ten. Her innocent father and sisters hadn't known a thing until the FBI had broken down their door. Then the FBI had sent them all to Forks after the trial, which explained a lot about that family if you thought about it—how functional could a family be when the matriarch was hiring a hit against her own daughter?

I asked Edward if he was going to add my theories to his murder notebooks. I couldn't help but sense the note of sarcasm in his voice as he agreed to do so.

Nor did it escape my notice that these phone calls of Edward's slowly began to devolve into discussions about topics totally unrelated to Tanya's murder. Topics like: How his day was, how my day was, what new musical obscenities had I been subjecting my eardrums to, why had he allowed his mother to decorate his apartment, and so on. The sort of conversations that one might have with an acquaintance or possibly a friend. I was extremely suspicious of his motives in trying to convince me that medicine wasn't as boring as I'd thought, but even I had to admit that some of his stories were amusing. Edward said that he was still reading my book even though I told him not to bother, and he asked me for recommendations from the realm of gothic literature. This last question created a conundrum, because of course one's personal favorites are never entirely appropriate are they? So of course I wanted to say Poe, but everyone says Poe, though they always do overlook that tale about the teeth even though that is perhaps the most perfectly perfect horror story ever written, with its high-pitched concentration on the tiniest detail. And then I wanted to say Gilchrist, but Gilchrist could be a bit tawdry if one wasn't a sentimental teenage girl. And then I wanted to say Lovecraft, but he wasn't gothic at all, even if he was the god-of-horror, and despite the impressiveness of his all-consuming narratives and mythological schemas, some pretty fucked-up racist sentiments were too intimately intertwined in the Lovecraftian universe for me to just toss off a recommendation without second-thoughts. So instead of answering, I asked Edward if he knew that Hollywood used to go out of their way to portray vampires as Jews and that Count Chocula had once worn a Star of David, and that Dennis Wheatley's devil worshippers were all communists and lesbians and ugly to boot—which didn't make sense since you would think that the devil could help a brother or a sister out—and then digressed on whether or not it really was possible to have horror without an Other, and if not, how to construct an Other that would not offend one's sensibilities regarding race, gender and religion in today's day and age. It was then that I realized that I had been going on for a good ten minutes without interruption and felt compelled to apologize. Edward said that he didn't mind, but I was sure that he was lying. His deception on this point was, no doubt, more of that rehabilitation program of his, the one _To Become the Sort of Man Who Would Not Be Suspected for Murder_, the same project that involved becoming an ER doctor and befriending socially withdrawn introverts. I did not believe that he was telling the truth when he said that he enjoyed listening to me speak so passionately on a subject in which I was so greatly interested.

I wasn't fond of speaking on the telephone, but every time there was a pause in the conversation and I thought of asking Edward what the hell it was that he really wanted from me, he would bid me farewell and hang up.

I noted that it took longer and longer for these pauses to occur each time he called.

I decided to put it all down as conversational practice and let it go at that. I was sure that Edward would forget about me as soon as this thing with Tanya had blown over and he no longer had to prove to anyone that he was a good person.

Our return trip to Forks was ostensibly scheduled for Homecoming, the second weekend of November. It was our class' ten year reunion, so the occasion was sure to draw together many 'persons of interest' in Tanya's death. Alice, too, was all a-flurry with plans of our triumphant return. I was not enamored of this plan. I had no intentions of returning for anything other than the investigation at hand. I envisioned spray-painting a spider-web diagram across the football field, then calling all of the men who had slept with Tanya down from the bleachers to take up their positions, giving them placards to wear 'round their necks listing the frequency of their liaisons, and using their distance from the center of the web to represent the usual locations of the sex acts in and around Forks. Edward would not admit it, but I think he was hoping for a denouement in the gymnasium, with the guilty party confessing his crimes under the pressure of Edward's heated cross-examination.

As the end of October crept ever closer, my anxiety over 'Homecoming' began to climb. I took to picturing an ordeal involving an ugly dress from a prom that I'd never attended and buckets of pigs' blood. I felt myself secretly becoming more and more annoyed with Edward, since I wouldn't be returning at all if it weren't for his insistence that this would be the perfect opportunity to gather evidence.

My resentment began to morph into outright anger as I tallied the many recent phone calls in which Edward's probing questions of my personal life had resulted in the revelation of more information than I was wont to share with anyone, let alone someone towards whom I was indifferent at best, and openly hostile at worst. Edward had gotten me to talk about horror movies and my favorite books. I'd waxed lyrical for fifteen minutes straight about a private collection I'd inspected once.

One night after a particularly prolonged conversation in which I'd divulged the intimate details of my passion for incunabula, I finally decided to put an end to it. Or, at least an end to the phone calls. I simply wouldn't pick up when he called. He'd figure it out eventually.

And that would have been that, had I not ended up on a bed the very next day with my shirt off and Edward's fingers running over my skin.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" I heard an unwelcome voice ask as the curtain in front of my examining table was pushed aside.

I scowled up at Edward. "I demand a different doctor. You can't treat me. Conflict of interest." It had occurred to me that Edward might be working the ER, but Angela had insisted on taking me to the closest hospital. Unfortunately, she'd had to leave me in the waiting room to go teach her next class. Abandoning me to my fate.

_Witch._

"I'm sorry ma'am, we're all backed up. I'm afraid that you'll have to wait at least an hour if you want to see another doctor."

I suspected that he was lying. "Another hour? How do you know that I don't have a punctured lung?"

"I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't be sitting here like this if you had a punctured lung."

"Whatever." I sniffed haughtily, refusing to believe that this was really happening.

"So," he asked, trying to nudge my blouse out of the way to inspect the area where my hand had been resting, "how did this happen?" Did I give him permission to touch me? No, I did not.

"I fell." Couldn't I just describe my symptoms and get an x-ray? Surely he didn't need to actually inspect the area of the injury.

"Hmm. You know, I'm going to need you to take off your bra."

_Motherfucker._ By this point, a nurse had appeared, the depths of my mortification requiring a witness apparently, and she offered to help me remove the offending item of clothing. Unwilling to deal with the real problem—the prospect of having to sit half naked in front of one of the people responsible for ensuring that I'd adopted a policy against appearing half naked in front of anyone—I decided to focus for a few seconds on the minor issue regarding said item of clothing. Stupid yellow polka dot bra.

Stupid _tiny_ yellow polka dot bra. And of course the nurse looked like a C-cup at least. Fuck my life.

But the distraction posed by my ridiculous choice in undergarments could only divert me for so long. Still refusing to comply with their requests to bare myself, I glared at the two of them—Barbie Nurse and Dickhead Doctor—as Edward read my chart and Barbie Nurse fiddled with my blood pressure cuff, because really, _really,_ this could not be fucking real. It was so horrible that I would have been laughing had it not been actually happening to me. It was, in fact, virtually a fulfillment of that nightmare wherein I had imagined myself pinned to the biology lab table from high school while Edward examined me, his jeering cohort urging him on.

'…_deprecating their _worst,_ but defying, almost desiring it, in the terrible and indefinite curiosity of despair….'_

I dared him—that's right—_dared him_, to say one goddamned thing inappropriate. It would vindicate every single suspicion I'd been having about his new good boy routine.

I felt a thrill of self-righteous fury.

Then, I calmed down.

Logic demanded one of two options: Either I let him examine my ribs or I reveal the truth about just how much I continued to distrust him, and thereby reveal the degree of power that he still held over me.

The choice was obvious. In all, it took me about five seconds to reason all this out, to realize that complete humiliation was inevitable, to accept it, to steel myself against it, and to disengage all emotion. If need be, I could just throw myself from the rafters of the theater and hope that this time I landed on my head.

Barbie Nurse helped me cover my breasts awkwardly so that Edward could look at my ribs.

"How did you fall?" Edward asked as I winced, his fingers gliding over a sensitive area, the sensation of skin on skin contact at least painful enough to dispel all confusion. It only made sense that this would hurt. If it did so chiefly because my ribs were injured was neither here nor there. It was the pain that mattered.

"I was the ghost in the rafters and the support line slipped." I imagined him making some snide remark about my weight causing the rope to slip, and then punching him in the throat and hopefully crushing his windpipe. I was _not _overweight and had, in point of fact, probably never been so, despite the numerous fucking comments certain people had once made on the subject. _Fucking anorexic cheerleaders. _

"Do you often haunt rafters?"

"Only when required by the joint faculty skits." I willed myself not to pull away as Edward traced the line of one of my ribs. "This year we're doing abbreviated skits from the Grand Guignol.

"I have no idea what that is."

_Plebian. _"André de Lorde wrote one of his plays about your people."

"My people?"

"Physicians. A doctor who turns his wife's lover into a zombie."

"Sounds fair."

"The zombie buries a chisel in the physician's skull."

"That sounds like less fun. Breathe," he told me, stethoscope on my chest.

I breathed.

"Deeply."

I breathed deeply.

"Are you sucking in your stomach?"

My hands curled into fists, preparing to punch him in the motherfucking throat. "No." I was though, sucking my stomach in, that is. Not much, but enough. My tummy was more "flattish" than concave even on my best days. And it really hurt today.

"I've got a bit of a gut now, too, you know."

I remembered the sight of him that morning in the bed and breakfast, not recalling a gut.

He guessed what I was thinking. "I was sucking in my stomach."

"I'm not sucking in my stomach," I lied. It really did hurt.

He rolled his eyes but didn't push it any further. "You need x-rays."

I had expected as much, so I said nothing as the nurse helped me into a gown. As if I couldn't do that on my own (I could, but it hurt). "Are you an actress?" she asked. What a fucking idiot.

"Only when Miss Post insists," I answered. Dear Miss Emily Post and her fucking rules of etiquette. The only thing standing between us and the barbarians at the gate.

"Don't listen to her," Edward apologized to Barbie Nurse for me. "They don't normally let her talk to strangers." If only he knew what was really going through my head.

Barbie Nurse's eyes were darting between Edward and me as if trying to unravel a mystery. If she succeeded, I hoped she'd clue me in. She probably wasn't an idiot. I just resented her for being pretty.

Edward and Barbie Nurse left me waiting for someone to take me up to radiology. I understood why the hospital didn't want patients wandering around on their own, but it was inefficient. As was the insistence that I see a doctor as opposed to a physician's assistant. I highly doubted that it took a medical degree to feel me up and to read x-rays.

By the time that I made it back from radiology—pictures of skeletons should be more fun—Edward was already waiting for me, sans Barbie Nurse this time. Studying the x-rays on a light board, Edward smiled, pretending to have a pleasant bedside manner. "Good news. They're only bruised."

I'd suffered abject humiliation, and they were only bruised? Bullshit.

"You should ice them and take pain reliever as needed," Edward said, turning to me.

"You're not going to wrap them?" What kind of shoddy outfit were they running around here? I knew that I should have gone to another hospital.

"We don't wrap bruised ribs. Naturally, you'll have to take it easy. No hanging around the rafters."

"But I'm the ghost."

Edward chuckled. "They had you in a harness, right?" I nodded an affirmative. "We'll see how long you stay in that harness with your ribs like this."

Was he implying that I was somehow lacking in fortitude? How the hell did he think that I had managed to put up with him for so long? "I hope you aren't suggesting that mere physical pain has the ability to stop art."

"Ghosts and zombies are art?"

"You deal with the depths of human depravity every day. I wouldn't expect you to understand." I saw to it that my tone simply dripped with disdain.

"I thought that human suffering was the source of all beauty."

"Only when left in the hands of someone with an ability to appreciate the sublime."

"I can appreciate the sublime."

"Ha!"

"Are you questioning my ability to appreciate the sublime?"

"A person who deals in the mundane all day long cannot possibly develop a true appreciation for the sublime."

"I would dispute that, but here's a list of things you should and shouldn't do." Checking his wristwatch, Edward paused. "You're good to go. I'll talk to you tonight, right?"

He meant on the phone. I was determined to cease and desist all such communications, and today's fiasco had not changed my decision, but I preferred that he find this out for himself as he gradually realized that I'd stopped taking his calls. So I shrugged ambiguously (and painfully) and thanked him for his efforts on my behalf, as Miss Post would have recommended. He left me to redress—after I turned down his offer of assistance—and I moved slowly, the shattered remnants of my dignity stuffed into my purse along with my bra.

Decent once more, I left the shelter of my curtained exam "room" and headed for the exit, intent upon fleeing as quickly as I could. But before I could make good on my escape, Edward loomed suddenly before me, a stupid smirk gracing his features.

"Bella, I meant to ask. Is this performance open to the public?"

Could this day get any worse? "I believe a limited number of seats are being sold to the general public," I told him through not quite gritted teeth as I eyed the empty corridor.

He grinned. "Awesome."

Son of a bitch. I spun around, absolutely through with Edward and his one-horse hospital, and promptly collided with an elderly gentleman who was, fortunately, far sturdier than he looked. He put his hands on my shoulder to steady me as I tried not to let any tears leak from my eyes at the pain of the sudden impact.

"I'm so sorry, dear. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I croaked, then cleared my voice. "It was my fault anyhow."

"Bella," Edward asked, "are you sure you're okay?"

"This is Bella?" the victim of my haste inquired and I narrowed my eyes, pain disappearing as I readied for a fight, my hands balling into fists. Had Edward been talking to someone about me?

The gentleman in question smiled and held out a hand for me to shake. "It's such a pleasure to meet Edward's Bella."

_Edward's_ Bella? I decided to play along, shaking the fellow's hand and glancing back at Edward who was nervously running his hand through his hair. _That's right, fucker. I'm on to you._  
"Bella, this is Marcus," Edward introduced us.

"She's even lovelier than you said," Marcus guffawed.

Aha! I _knew_ that I was being set up.

"Of course you must bring her with you to dinner tomorrow night," Marcus told Edward.

He must? Why? Just what did this dinner entail? I imagined a _Twilight Zone_-esque dialogue pitting good versus evil around a banquet table, my head on a plate.

Edward seemed unsure. "I—Marcus we can't just impose on her like this."

"Nonsense. A new perspective would do us good. Bring her with you. If you don't, I just might not open the door." Marcus winked at me—_winked!—_and continued on down the corridor.

I glowered at Edward.

"You don't have to come," he hedged.

"You don't want me to come?" Why the fuck not? I ignored, for the moment, the irrationality of being angry that I was being uninvited to a dinner where I'd imagined my head on a plate.

"No. I mean, you can come. You should come if you want to. It's just—Marcus is a bit odd."

"_Texas Chainsaw Massacre _odd or just Victor Fargas odd?" I had to admit that I was a bit intrigued to see Edward so uncomfortable. And who was this guy he'd been talking to about me?

"Victor Fargas?" Edward asked.

"The poor guy with just a handful of books left in his collection in the empty mansion in _The Ninth Gate_."

"I feel like I understand less than half of what you say."

"You've never seen _The Ninth Gate_?" I was horrified.

"Yeah, I did. Lena Olin. But I hardly remember anything else."

"I have a theory that everyone you meet is someone from _The Ninth Gate_. Most people want to be Jonny Depp or Frank Langella. But I'm the poor guy with just a few books and a stupid house left to my name."

Edward cocked his head to one side. "That's really sad."

"It's a curse. I'd have sold the house and kept the books, but it's been in my family for hundreds of years." My _Ninth Gate-_self loved books just as much as I did.

"You and Marcus might get along really well actually."

"I don't have to come if you don't want me there," I hedged, conscious after all of the imposition.

"No, it's not that. It's just," Edward shook his head, trying to put whatever he was trying to say into words.

He was cut short by his pager going off. "Shit, Bella, I've got to go," Edward said just as all hell broke loose. A gurney was suddenly racing down the previously empty hallway, ringed with flying monkeys in scrubs. I hurried out of the way as Edward rushed over and began barking out questions in a language I didn't understand.

_My goodness_, I thought, watching Edward in action as he started giving orders. Perhaps he did do some useful work after all.

I stymied that thought before it could confuse me further, and fled back to the safety of my university.

It turned out that I did answer the phone when Edward called that night, but I told myself that it was only because I wanted to meet this Marcus and find out just what Edward had been saying about me behind my back.

When Edward picked me up the following afternoon, it had already started to rain, a nice steady downpour, with rolling thunderclouds making day into night and a loud rumble every once in a while. I smiled, gazing out of the window as the water streaked over the glass.

"You like the rain?" Edward asked.

"I _love_ it."

He snorted. "Of course you do."

"What does that mean?"

"You always do the opposite of what I expect."

"I do not care to be subject to the expectations of others."

"That's obvious. Rain makes the traffic worse."

"The traffic's always bad. At least this way there's raindrops to smear the view. It's like living in a Dali painting, in a good way. How do you know Marcus?"

"He used to be an ME, a medical examiner, at the hospital."

I sensed again Edward's discomfort—the same anxiety that he'd expressed when Marcus first extended the invitation—and I wondered why he was so uneasy. Was he upset over the prospect of me becoming more and more involved with his life? Why had he been talking about me with Marcus in the first place? Why hadn't he simply told me that I wasn't welcome? I would have understood.

Whatever the case, Edward changed the subject, asking if I was still planning to dangle from the rafters of a theater for the sake of art. In point of fact the university had decided that an ethereal phantom in the second act was too much of a liability and that I should just come up from a trap door, but I didn't want to give Edward the satisfaction of knowing that yet, so I just huffed and asked if I was being driven all of the way to Canada.

It so happened that Marcus did live in the state of Washington, if not very close at hand. His manse was located in the middle of a densely wooded patch of ground, for he was not a fan of the city, it seemed, which I could completely understand, not being overly fond of crowds myself. Yet even I was taken aback when Edward stopped in front of the cemetery.

**AN: Check out ficsisters dot com (International House of Fanfic). I'm reviewing **_**The Nymph and the Waterfall**_** by Pastiche Pen tomorrow. Many thanks to ficsisters for having me!**

**I made up the de Lorde skit above, though I assume that he must have included something of the sort in at least one of his plays.**

_**Grand Guignol**_**—put on grisly plays, many of which were written by de Lorde. Alas, it's closed now.**

'…**deprecating their worst, but defying, almost desiring it, in the terrible and indefinite curiosity of despair**_**….' **_**is Charles Robert Maturin**

**Rec: Between Us by Nuttyginger **He was the same and different all in one body. The boy I had once loved had turned into a man...temptation in a tie, had swagger for days...and a curious British lilt that makes my insides tumble. Could we ever be what we were or am I just completely screwed? AH, ExB Rated: M - English - Drama/Romance - Chapters: 18 - Words: 98,701 - Reviews: 769 - Favs: 733 - Follows: 896 - Updated: Feb 9, 2013 - Published: Aug 18, 2012 - Edward, Bella - Complete

**Happy New Year!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Meyer owns all.**

**Danger! Alert! Thar be random literary digressions ahead! Feel free to skip to the -x-x- for something a trifle less…**_**wordy**_** (or boring, or obscure, or blah blah blah).**

Chapter 14

'_Systers in sorrowe, on thys daise-ey'd banke,_

_Where melancholych broods, we will lamente;_

…_lychee forlettenn halls of merriemente,_

_Whose gastlie mitches holde the traine of frighte,_

_Where lethale ravens bark, and owlets wake the nyghte.'_

_Chatterton_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, our hero (is it too soon to refer to him as such?) was escorting our heroine to a dinner party at the home of one of those ghoulish creatures commonly known as medical examiners. _

"Your friend lives next to a cemetery?" I asked, wondering at the few rows of gravestones tilting across the rolling earth in the small grove of trees next to the rambling Queen Anne.

Edward sighed. "I tried to warn you."

"No, cemeteries are fine." Indeed, the gloomy weather and the bare limbs of the trees cast a decidedly surreal pall over the scene, especially alongside the elaborate architecture of the house. Were it a scene in a movie, I would be delighted. As it was, I might have hesitated beside the Porsche—after letting myself out and not waiting for Edward to come around and open my door, much to his chagrin as I foiled his feint at chivalry—but that surely had more to do with the alarm that I always felt at the outset of a social engagement and less to do with the fact that I was having dinner with someone who seemed to think that it was just dandy to live next to a cemetery. "I sometimes go to graveyards to look at the sculptures," I told Edward, lest he think that Marcus' living arrangements made me uneasy. I left out the part about how such graveyard jaunts in search of picturesque statuary always evoked a tangle of feelings of guilt and anxiety and whatever it is that we feel when confronted with the sublime: Guilt over the insensitivity of traipsing about such a place so callously and anxiety over the general violation of such a taboo and a shamefully vicious delight born of an indifferent appreciation for the absurdly sublime, the images carved into all of the gravestones inspiring such supercilious and fickle thoughts: _What a pretty grim reaper_. Such sentiments were hardly to my credit.

Edward led the way to the door and knocked. Marcus quickly answered and showed us inside, obviously quite pleased to see us.

The interior was perfectly normal, or as normal as the interior of a Queen Anne can be, with walls and ceilings and floors all where they belonged, not askew or covered in funhouse mirrors as they ought to have been if this really was meant to be an evening of _Twilight Zone_-chicanery. There was minimal artwork. Marcus left us in a parlor—for surely, in a house of this nature, such a room would be called a _parlor_—and went to check on dinner.

Left alone with a subdued Edward—he seemed strangely discomfited and for the life of me I could not see why, unless it was because he didn't want me here after all—I glanced around the parlor. Here a little more attention had been paid to aesthetics. I studied the collection of etchings hanging on the wall. _War as a Parable_. _The Deplorable Lament from the Lady of Magdeburg to her Bloodthirsty Groom_. _The Beasts of Perdition_. _The Horrible but True Story of Brabant._ And so on.

"These are really fantastic," I told Edward, who looked a little worried, perhaps over how I was taking in everything, which made a kind of sense, as I had to admit that the images _were_ a little grisly for parlor decor.

The books on Marcus' shelves were no less impressive. A veritable feast of _Angst, Forcht, und Schrecken. _"These are even better," I told Edward, who had still to say anything.

"Thank you, my dear," Marcus said, having sidled up behind me. "You will note in particular the more ribald prints in the corner there." Edward started to say something and Marcus cut him off. "Oh, hush Edward, she is no shrinking virgin to pull away in fright."

If only he knew.

Marcus continued. "I've read your book, Miss Swan, and I must say that I think you have an admirable grasp on the subject."

I felt a rush of warmth course through me. What a vain creature I was. Unable to stop myself from smiling, I thanked him, fairly cooing. "I really appreciate that. And you know Edward, these really aren't that bad." They kind of were though.

Marcus continued. "Of course, comedy and horror go hand in hand. A carnival culture of people running riot, exploding with sex and revolution. But Edward always struggles to see the lighter side of things. Completely understandable, given his circumstances. He insists on carrying on with such gravity. As if we ourselves were guilty of the crimes which we study. We aren't the monsters. We just scrutinize them."

"Now that's—" Edward started to say, but I couldn't help myself from interrupting.

I quoted from de Quincey. "'I do affirm…and always shall...that murder is an improper line of conduct.'"

"_On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts_," Marcus chortled, recognizing the line that I'd butchered.

"Murder might be considered a sort of intellectual puzzle, I suppose," I admitted, reflecting that Edward must have spent quite a lot of time studying murders other than Tanya's, "but it's easy to see why treating it like entertainment provokes moral outrage."

"And therein lies all of Edward's difficulty. He must be the standard bearer for all morality."

The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. "If Edward Cullen is the standard bearer for morality, then God help us."

Marcus laughed heartily, not getting the real joke, I knew, though Edward must have. I looked over to see Edward standing uncertainly with his hands in his pockets, grimacing at the floor. "Relax," I told him, too softly for Marcus to hear, rolling my eyes in his direction to let him know that it was just a joke. I refused to believe that Edward was really distressed over my comment. "The public loves a good redemption story," I said a bit more loudly, and it was true enough, of a morally pliable populace, if not myself. I didn't believe in redemption. But Edward continued to look troubled so I looked away, disconcerted to see Edward so ill at ease—and not just over my last joke, but over the entire proceedings, it seemed—and confused by my desire to reassure him.

Was it Marcus who was making Edward uncomfortable?

No, that couldn't be it. They were clearly friends.

Obviously,_ I_ was the problem. For some reason, Edward was anxious over the prospect of Marcus and me meeting.

I wasn't sure why. If anything, Marcus and I seemed to have at least an appreciation for the morbid in common.

Was it just Edward's old prejudice against me at work again? For all his blustering about wanting to be friends, I doubted that Edward really wanted me in his life.

A surge of anger filled me. _What an asshole_. I didn't have to be here, after all. This was all Edward's doing.

Marcus took no note of my annoyance, which I hoped was well-hidden, or of Edward's brooding, which was obvious, and ushered us into the dining room.

The entrée was a roast, but there were plenty of sides to keep me happy. After inquiring into the subject of my current research, Marcus launched into a soliloquy on de Quincey. "But of course I would probably be subjected to far worse censure than de Quincey encountered if I ever tried to publish a similar account of the research that Edward and I have been doing."

Edward was shaking his head but I would have none of that, especially as I was annoyed with him at present. I still wasn't entirely clear on just what this research entailed. "Sorry, what is that you do exactly? You study murder?"

"Edward hasn't told you?" Marcus glanced at Edward confusedly.

"It's not really polite dinner-time talk," Edward replied.

"Nonsense," Marcus scoffed.

"Bella didn't go to medical school. To her it _is_ just entertainment," Edward defended himself. Seeing that I was glaring at him, he tried to explain. "You read books about people who died hundreds of years ago. You don't look at morgue photos and read autopsy reports."

Marcus apologized. "Sometimes I forget that not everyone is as intrigued as I am with the workings of the human body."

"You were a medical examiner?" I asked, overlooking for the moment the implication that my work was merely entertainment. _Fucking STEM propagandist! _

Marcus nodded. "Yes, and then this one," he gestured towards Edward, "came to me asking all of these gruesome questions about how to go about killing a person. I was worried for a moment until he told me everything about what happened."

"And the two of you…what?"

Edward cut in. "Marcus and I just follow the news. And Marcus has some contacts in the ME's office. So we keep our eyes open."

That was not in the least bit helpful.

"We look for serial killers," Marcus added.

I coughed on my wine. "Serial killers?"

"It's not just serial killers," Edward clarified. "We look at the evidence for various unsolved crimes."

"Oh." Was that normal? Did all retired MEs go around doing things like that?

Marcus turned to me again. "My interest in the subject isn't wholly practical, however. I am more than a little interested in the general history of the topic, which naturally includes the cultural excesses of violence and the bizarre."

"It's a little morbid," Edward apologized.

Marcus was unfazed. "'Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin and made my sin their door?'" he quoted Dunne.

Edward shook his head. "We would be better off if we could just predict a person's likelihood to commit a crime, and take care of it before anything happened."

I wasn't sure that I understood his meaning. "Psychological tests? You look for the gene that tells you someone will become a serial killer and you stop them from ever being born? Eugenics?"

"You have to admit that what we're doing isn't working."

"We are at an all-time low on the level of violence that's committed nowadays. Do you have any idea what people did to each other one hundred, two hundred years ago?"

"And with all our modern advances, we still can't stop a person from becoming an animal. What does that say about our society?"

"Edward, you wouldn't pass your own tests, you know that right? If you tried to identify the pathological traits likely to make a killer, you would be on the list." I didn't say it to be cruel. I said it because it was true. I'd probably fail those tests myself.

He shrugged. "So add me to the list. Take care of me too."

What the fuck? "Are you seriously going to make me sit here and defend you? Because I won't do that."

Marcus interceded. "I think that we are taking all of this a bit too much to heart. I'm sure Bella didn't mean that you were a monster." Though I kind of did. "Let us pass on to happier topics. 'Give me more love or more disdain…Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.' I have several volumes of fine poetry which I would like to show you after dinner. Bella, are you, by chance, a collector?"

Of course I could not resist that. I wondered how much Edward had told Marcus about me.

With several rather hard nudges involving old books and the history of medicine, Marcus changed the subject, and after a while managed to engage even Edward in discussion.

It turned out that Edward was better read than I had expected. He was a fan of the modernists, which did not surprise me, but knew a few of the older writers as well. He was a closet Dickensian, of all things, and I, willing as I sometimes was to sacrifice truth-in-all-things for the sake of congeniality, opted not to voice my opinions on the prissy mores of an overrated writer.

After dinner, Marcus showed me some of the finer volumes in his collection. I was quite impressed, though I had to admit that books, not book _collecting_, was my area of expertise.

"This is nothing compared to my real beauties," Marcus boasted.

Edward seemed uncomfortable again. "Marcus, I really don't think—"

"She's been helping you with Tanya. I'm sure she'd like to see."

Edward didn't appear convinced, but I wanted to see the rest of Marcus' collection. "I would like to see them," I told him.

So Marcus led the way to the first room off of the parlor and opened the door, stepping out of the way so that I could see the interior for myself.

Despite my best efforts, I do believe that my jaw dropped.

This was nothing compared to Edward's collection of morgue photos and suspect lists. This was an entire room dedicated to murder. There were pictures and maps and whiteboards covered with what looked to be timelines. There were several filing cabinets that appeared to be filled with files and a long table covered in folders. There was even a diorama of what looked like a basement, a splash of red covering the center of the faux floor.

I didn't know what to say.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Marcus asked.

For lack of another way to respond, I nodded.

Edward pulled the door closed and we made our farewells. Marcus invited us—both of us, Edward _and_ me—to join him for dinner again sometime soon. I thanked him for the evening because, until that last room, I really had enjoyed myself. Marcus was a little scary, but so was I, probably.

Edward was quiet during the ride back to Seattle. I had the suspicion that he was angry with me, but for what I didn't know. Unless it was my intrusion upon the evening.

Once we hit the city limits, he pulled up in front of a coffee shop. "It's still early. Do you want to get a coffee?"

Wasn't _getting coffee _something that friends did? But I wanted to know what was bothering Edward. Rather like a child who shoves a stick into a beehive.

Once I agreed, Edward engaged the childproof locks in the Porsche until he had his hand on the passenger door and was opening it for me.

"I don't know what you think that you're proving," I told him as I climbed out of the car.

"You could just say _thank you_."

"I have no intention of giving you the satisfaction of thinking that you're doing anything worth being done."

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting that I was capable of doing anything worthwhile," Edward replied, opening the door of the coffee shop for me as well.

"Good. Because there's a portrait of you hanging in one of your closets and it doesn't look too good anymore, the signs of dissipation showing in full force. I just know it."

"If I recall correctly, Dorian Gray was a paragon of manly beauty. Are you saying that you think that I'm a paragon?"

"You're a paragon of something."

By then, we'd reached the counter. We ordered our coffees, Edward balking under the glare of my laser-beam eyes so that I succeeded in paying for both, and then we picked them up from the other side of the shop. We sat by the window.

"So all of that back at Marcus' was a bit much," he started.

Who was I to judge?

He went on. "I just don't want you to think that I'm crazy."

"Too late," I replied glibly, unable to stop myself, though nothing that had happened that evening had seemed particularly odd. So Edward had a friend who lived next to a cemetery and collected weird woodblock prints? I read books about vampires for a living.

Edward blinked at me.

"Being crazy's not that bad," I tried to reassure him. _So sensitive._

"We've actually helped the police catch a few criminals."

"See? There you go. Contributing to society. Not crazy at all."

"Somehow, when you say it like that, it almost sounds like you're making fun of me."

"I'm not." _Was I?_ I sipped at my coffee.

"Between you and Marcus, I might as well have been in another room. What _is _this gothic that you keep going on about?"

"It's lots of things. Ghosts and secret messages and murders. Dungeons and curses and vows of vengeance. Heroes disguised as villains and vice versa. Violence and adventure."

"So, Harry Potter?"

"Harry Potter on LSD, maybe."

"And why do you like it so much?"

I tried to evade the question. "No one ever understands."

"Try me."

"Can't it just be one of my quirks?"

"But I really want to know."

I thought for a moment. "Well, there is of course, the identification with the 'Other.'" I used my fingers to indicate the quotation marks.

Edward raised an eyebrow. Was he really so dense?

I shrugged. "I have never been popular." That was putting it mildly. "I have never had many friends. So naturally I see myself in the creature damned to his cursed existence."

"Like Frankenstein?"

"It's actually the Frankenstein _monster_. Frankenstein is the name of the doctor."

"But it never turns out well for the monster. He gets chased by people with pitchforks. There's got to be a better role model."

"Is knowledge of your fate a reason to deny your true self? That would be cowardly, if not more tragic than the end that you are trying so hard to avoid. Would you tell a homosexual to pretend that he's straight?"

"It's not the same thing."

"It's close enough."

"You don't hang out in morgues or drink blood."

"No, but I know what it's like to be on my own and to have people not like you." I stared out the window and the streetlights that were just then coming on. Stars in the dark. "And it can be a kind of comfort, you know, to come across some solemn scene, some empty stretch of space wherein no one but you would ever hesitate, and to rest. At last, to be able to rest because you don't have to pretend that you're something you aren't."

"So that's it then? You don't like people?"

"There's more to it, but that's enough."

"What else?"

I glanced at him dubiously. "If you don't get what I've just said then you definitely won't get the rest of it."

"I get it. You wake up one day and realize that you're the monster in the story. But I've spent the last ten years trying to change, and you don't want to."

"I like myself."

"But you're alone," Edward concluded without a trace of malice in his voice.

"So are you."

"As soon as I find Tanya's killer, I'll have time for other people."

"That is the difference between you and me. I don't want other people."

"Aren't you lonely?" There was a wistfulness to Edward's question that made me wonder if he was really talking about himself.

"Of course. That's why I have the acquaintances that I do. 'No man is an island,' and all that. But people alone could never suffice. They're boring."

"Maybe you just haven't met the right people."

"Or maybe there is something wrong with me. My senses are all out of whack so that I've got no choice but to rely on books for what other people can get from each other."

"What do you mean?"

"It is as if—how does it go?—it is as if '…each nucleus of pain or pleasure had a deep atmosphere of the excitement or spiritual intoxication which at once exalts and deadens.'" I waved a hand to and fro as I spoke, as if to show the extremities of the scale. "The stuff that I read sometimes stirs emotions that I have never felt by any other means."

"Awful ones, though, right? I mean, horror movie stuff."

"Can you have one without the other? Beauty without horror? Maybe other people can. Normal people."

"You're normal."

I huffed with mock indignation. "I'm far from normal. At the best, I probably have alexithymia."

"That would actually explain a lot. But that doesn't mean that there is something wrong with you."

"I think, by definition, it does."

"You're just looking at it cockeyed. Do you really have to take the lows to get the highs? I'm not sure you do."

"No heaven without the charnel house. Have you ever experienced heaven, after all?"

"Heaven? Do you mean happiness?"

"Transcendence." I looked back out the window, as if I could see it there, wafting through the night sky.

"Like God?"

"Like—like you're on fire and you're flying. And not because you've taken a drug."

"I suppose that's what it feels like to be in love."

I looked back at him questioningly. "You suppose? Or you know?"

"Suppose," Edward said resolutely.

"I wouldn't know." If he was being honest, then so would I. "And people are such a lot of effort. Why bother with them when you can get the same thing—if being in love is indeed sufficient for producing the desired effect—why bother when you can achieve the same effects on your own?"

"Are we still talking about the same thing?" There was a hint of laughter in his voice now.

"Books. Not sex toys. Books. Though I suppose that they could be mixed."

"I've never read any books like that." Edward sounded unconvinced.

"You've never read a book that sends a shiver down your spine? Some frisson of horror or delight? They are so similar in the physiological responses which they prompt. Have you ever noticed?"

"I hadn't."

"Think about it. But as for your denial with regards to your reading habits, I don't believe you. I think that you are just afraid that I will judge you for the perverted nature of your proclivities. Or that you are too jealous to share your beloved with someone else. Because I refuse to believe you've never experienced it."

"How would I know if I have?"

"It is like being struck by a song. The cadence of some words or a thirsty joy."

"Thirsty?" Edward asked.

"An irresistible longing for more."

"I don't think that I have."

I dropped my eyes and sighed. There was no point in trying to explain it to him after all. I wouldn't leave it at that, though, because why should I always be the one who seemed deficient? "Perhaps you really are a prude then. You're reading material all one way or another. None of that tremendous sway and shiver. You have to take chances. Read things you shouldn't. And not because they're full of ribald sex or violence, but because they aren't. Because the sex and violence is all bound up in ways that mean they've no chance but to escape via routes you couldn't possibly imagine."

"Like the pickle jar in _Ethan Frome_?" Edward asked. We'd had to read it senior year of high school.

"Exactly," I smiled. Perhaps he did understand.

"I hated that fucking book. They should have just had sex."

Well, so much for understanding. "That was the point."

"Repression and frustration?"

"The elaboration of those extremes of emotions which can't be experienced any other way. For that very reason—the elusive, intransitive nature of it—it's immaterial, not bound to you or I, and by definition its expression is easier via the whisper of a sentence across a page." I smoothed my palm over the tabletop, as if running my fingers over the page of a book, as if I could read the imaginary print through my fingertips, like braille. "Letters and words bleeding across the leaf, the ink running from a wine stain." I dropped my voice, in keeping with the solemnity of the subject matter. "It's a secret told in a text. It's not something that I can tell you out loud or show you through touch. It's longing. Pure and simple longing. Unsatisfied."

Edward shook his head. "I don't understand. What do you mean unsatisfied? You can read a book, can't you? If that's all the secret is, then you just read it and you're in on the mystery."

"But a book's not _experience_. Reading _suggests_ at the same time that it _distances_ the reader from the thing it's suggesting. It's temptation and deprivation simultaneously. It _is_ longing."

"You can experience it for yourself though. Whatever you read in a book, you can go and experience it for yourself after you're done reading."

"Not always. In fact, if you can experience it, then that's not what I'm talking about. I mean longing that _can't_ be satisfied, and in fact _that's _why it's desirable. If it could be satisfied then it's not worth having. But at the same time, you only know that it's worth having if you can never have it. It's a conundrum."

"That's so depressing. Don't you want to be happy?"

"What makes you think that we're meant to be happy? Isn't misery worth it? Man's reach exceeding his grasp and all that." I held my coffee mug aloft as though in a toast, my eyes gazing blankly into space. "'...this is thy divinity which stirs within me—not that, in some sad and sickening moments, my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction—mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself—all comes from thee, great, great SENSORIUM of the world!'" I ended with one hand over my heart and the mug held up like a torch.

"You really are a little odd. I know that I've tried to deny it in the past, but I take it back. You are." Edward shook his head again. "Not that that is a bad thing."

There was a time when I would have taken what he'd said as an insult. But I was happy to stand out now. I wasn't a sheep. I swallowed some of my coffee. "I should think not."

"You and Marcus got along better than I expected."

"I like Marcus," I said. It was true. And I didn't like anyone.

"He likes you too," Edward said. My heart swelled at his words. "He's helped me a lot over the last couple of years."

"I've helped with Tanya, haven't I?"

"You have."

An idea occurred to me. "And I could help more. Why don't I try to question the brother of that waitress or that other guy you suspected? You know, the one who you already knew was sleeping with Tanya. What was his name? Felix."

"Not a chance." All trace of the merriment from our conversation about books and sex toys was gone from Edward's voice.

"Why not?"

"I've already talked to them."

"Maybe I can get more out of them. You know, if one of them really did it, we could even try to set them up. See if they try anything with me." Not that I thought they would—I was no Tanya, in looks or anything else—but it was worth a shot.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Edward snapped.

"It's a good idea."

"You're a fucking school teacher. I'm not putting you at risk."

"If you really cared about finding Tanya's killer, you'd do this."

"This isn't some novel. You read too much of that shit. It's rotted your brain."

I huffed. Edward was being purposely obtuse. "So you've decided it's someone else?" I asked.

"Oh, I still think one of those fuckers did it. But you let me take care of them. We're going back to Forks. I'll talk to all of Tanya's other little fuck buddies. You stay away from them. And away from Mike too."

"What am I supposed to do then?"

"You can bake more cakes and get another lap dance. But this time," Edward smirked at me over his mug, "I get to watch."

I failed to see the humor in his suggestion. "You're different now," I said, then regretted doing so. Edward's demeanor wasn't any of my business.

"What do you mean?"

I considered lying, but couldn't think of a convincing alternative to the truth. So I ventured on honesty. "You seemed upset earlier. Like you regretted inviting me to dinner."

A wounded look flashed across Edward's face and then was gone. "I was afraid of what meeting Marcus would make you think of me."

I was confused. "I don't see why."

Edward studied me intently, as if looking for evidence of some deception on my part. "You don't think it's weird? What Marcus and I have been doing? You don't think that it sounds…strange?"

"It's not for me to comment."

"But I'm asking."

"Then I'm indifferent. It's none of my business." And it wasn't. As long as Edward wasn't a serial killer, I didn't see how his hobbies were any business of mine. So there wasn't any point in me dwelling on the subject.

"My family thinks that I've lost it."

"Why do you care what they think?" I asked. I'd joked before that I thought Edward was crazy, but I didn't really mean it. I, of all people, was in no place to pass judgment over another's more morbid pastimes.

"They're my family."

"Accidents of DNA shouldn't be allowed to dictate who we are." Otherwise, I would have to call up Renee posthaste and plan a reunion.

"It's not just them."

I shrugged. "Fuck the world."

Edward seemed uncertain. "But I want people to think that I'm a good person."

"Then be a good person. The end. Don't worry about what other people think."

"What do _you_ think?"

I blinked. "What do I think about what?"

"About me."

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"I think it does."

"That's nonsense. I don't matter."

"But I want us to be friends. You wouldn't be friends with someone unless you thought that he was a good person, would you?"

I didn't know how to respond.

Edward went on. "So I was worried about what you would think of Marcus. I know how strange our friendship probably seems. And then I was worried that you would decide that I was crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy," I said. It was all I could think of saying. It wasn't a lie but I didn't know why it was important.

"Good." He smiled, looking genuinely happy.

_Let Edward think we are friends_, I told myself. _What are friends anyhow?_

I watched Edward drink the rest of his coffee, wondering at his game.

I reminded myself what friends really were. _People with whom you converse on occasion to remind you that you're alive and human. Certainly not creatures on whom you can rely._

_You can only count on yourself._

So if Edward thought that by calling himself my friend, he would get me to lower my guard, he was wrong.

I didn't trust anyone. Not really.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I had been more than a trifle annoyed that Edward had been so quick to disregard my suggestion regarding undercover operations. My idea _was_ good. Edward had raised some valid concerns with regard to my safety, but I didn't think that there was very much to worry about. It wasn't as if I was going into this blind with no knowledge as to just what I was dealing with. Felix Manning might not be a criminal but Demetri Giampetroni surely was, his penchant for beating up women by no means endearing. Yet I had no intention of provoking either one of them. Much.

Even if I did provoke one of them into doing something, that would be proof of guilt, wouldn't it? If nothing else, perhaps I could finally get Demetri put away.

It would have been better to start with Felix, as I'd no real reason to believe he was capable of violence. By the same token, however, I had more reason to believe that Demetri was the one who'd killed Tanya and that there was no reason to waste my time with Felix. Moreover, I could recall the name of the Seattle bar listed as Demetri's place of employment in Edward's little notebook. To talk to Felix, I would either have to find him myself or else find a way to get another look at the notebook. So I asked Alice and Jane to meet me at the bar where Demetri worked—not brave enough to go it entirely alone—and arranged to arrive there half an hour before I'd told them to show up so that I would have time to scope Demetri out before they came.

I had a vision of myself as Barbara Stanwyck in _Double Indemnity_. Not a 'knock out' _per se_ but a femme fatale nevertheless.

I was entirely out of my depth, of course. I was a sometime goth poseur, not some noir pin-up girl. But I just didn't see any other way of approaching the problem of 'getting my man.'

And the gothic and noir weren't entirely at odds. Like the gothic, noir was, it seemed to me, nothing more or less than a commentary on the grotesque attenuation of decadence and the decay of morality and reason into a senseless nightmare of self-loathing monsters and horrible cruelty. The real difference boiled down to this: Noir had more cars.

If there was a dearth of femme fatales in gothic literature, it had at least the feminine embodiment of the snake from _The Lair of the White Worm_ and others of her ilk.

I didn't kid myself—I wasn't the kind of dame (they were all called 'dames' in noir) that a guy would kill for. It was all a matter of self-confidence, though. Or so everyone said.

I was not, it must be admitted, known for my confidence, at least with regard to anything unrelated to books.

Nevertheless, I had a vague notion that I wanted to be all "sexy" and alluring when I walked into the bar where Demetri worked. In actual practice, this meant listening to Lana del Rey as I got ready and making sure that my hair had plenty of bounce and that I was wearing one of the slinkier of my black dresses that Alice had forced upon me and bright red lipstick that made me feel slightly clown-like. But I still had on my glasses, as I couldn't see more than six inches in front of my face without them, and the heels on my feet made me stumble on my way through the door, but I thought that I recovered nicely.

I took a seat at the bar and tried to look interesting.

"What'll you have?" Demetri asked. I recognized him from the many photos in Edward's notebook. He didn't look like a killer. But then he also didn't look like a guy who would beat up his girlfriends, which just went to show that looks didn't mean shit. It hardly seemed fair that people like me were just faltering along in the land of awkward while guys who liked to keep eyeballs in jars were wining and dining, though I supposed that a killer wouldn't be able to evade capture for very long if people could sense his taste for human liver merely by his looks.

Still, if Demetri was a serial killer, I found it hard to believe that he would be interested in someone like me, even 'dolled up' as I was.

Though if he _wasn't_ a serial killer, that would make his interest even more difficult to explain, wouldn't it? Plain Janes are the very best victims—too unused to flattery to put up any real resistance against the charms of a would-be killer and too forgettable for anyone to notice that they've disappeared and to make a report to the police or to remember that they did indeed pass through when the police finally did bother to try and trace their last steps.

I wondered if this line of reasoning would hold up in court: '_Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you that the defendant's interest in such an uncomely creature could only be motivated by malevolent intentions.'_

"Gin and tonic," I replied, trying to make my voice a husky imitation of Lauren Bacall's from _To Have and Have Not_, but sounding instead like I had a cold.

The fellow two seats over squinted at me drunkenly. "You been 'round here before?" he asked.

"First time," I answered coolly, hoping that he would pick up on my disinterest.

He grinned widely. "I tell you what you want to do. You want to have fun with Tom."

"Oh, that's okay. I have fun by myself." _Did I really just say that?_

Demetri set the gin and tonic down in front of me.

"Thanks," I said, sounding now like a drag queen.

Barbara had made it all look so easy. Demetri was supposed to stick around and make small talk. Instead, he went to the other end of the bar and Tom hit on me again.

I played with my napkin, disappointed in myself—somehow I didn't think that asking Demetri if he'd read any good books lately would get me anywhere—all the while humming and nodding in response to Tom's queries, not wanting to seem like a total bitch since I was hardly likely to garner Demetri's trust if I was threatening the regulars.

I had to draw the line, however, when Tom slid over onto the stool next to mine.

"I'm waiting for someone," I told him.

He looked around the bar blearily. "Don't see 'im."

"He'll be here any minute."

"Should wanna protect wats 'is."

Demetri suddenly materialized on our end of the bar. "You bothering the lady?" he asked.

"I ain't doin' nothin.'"

"Then do it over back on your stool."

Tom slid back over, going an extra stool down just to be safe.

"Thank you," I said with mock sincerity, supposing that this was as good an opening as any. I wondered if this was Demetri's MO—playing the gentleman until the lady in question lowered her guard.

He jerked his head once in recognition, wiping down the bar and turning around to stack glasses.

_Come the fuck on Bella_. "Hey, you look really familiar. What's your name?"

He glanced at me in the glass behind the bar. "Demetri."

I crinkled my nose in thought. "No, I don't recognize your name. You from Port Angeles?"

"Yeah." He turned around and put his hands on the bar, looking at me. "What's your name?"

"Bella."

"That Italian?"

"Mongrel. I'm from Forks."

"That's not even a dot on the map."

I laughed. "Not unless someone spilled food on the map." _Look at me! _Barbara could eat her heart out.

"So how'd you know I was from Port Angeles?"

"I knew you weren't from Forks. And Port Angeles is the closest thing."

This was going surprisingly well. Who knew that I was capable of making such easy conversation?

Perhaps it was all Demetri's doing. Serial killers were supposed to be charming. I was falling into his trap even now.

He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped as his eyes registered something happening behind me.

I heard Alice call out my name. _Damn. _They were early.

I glanced over to see Jane sliding up onto the stool next to me as Demetri retreated to refill Tom's glass.

Alice craned her neck around Jane to get a look at me. She whistled. "Girl, what the hell are you doing dressed like that? Is Edward Cullen around here somewhere?"

Demetri's head snapped up, almost as if he recognized Edward's name. But I was sure that there was no way that he—

Demetri's face, when he turned to me, was set in an expression of unadulterated rage.

Shit.

**AN: **

**STEM—Science, Technology, Engineering, Math. I think. It's boring and they're taking history jobs away so I don't really pay attention.**

**Recommendation – it has too many reviews to really meet my standards of the 'unknown diamond in the rough,' but it is the only piece of fiction, fan- or otherwise, that to my mind adequately communicates the **_**je ne sais quoi**_** impact of reading which I tried to communicate in this chapter: **_**Ethan Church. **_**I am referring especially to those early passages of **_**Ethan Church **_**wherein the narrator describes the haunting feelings evoked by the act of reading. **

"'**Give me more love or more disdain…Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.'" by Thomas Carew**

'…**each nucleus of pain or pleasure had a deep atmosphere of the excitement or spiritual intoxication which at once exalts and deadens.' by George Elliot**

'**...this is thy divinity which stirs within me—not that, in some sad and sickening moments, my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction—mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself—all comes from thee, great, great SENSORIUM of the world!' by Lawrence Sterne**


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you to everyone who's reading.**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 15

'_The passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully is Astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul, in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror.' – Burke _

BPOV

_Last time in_ Gothic, _our heroine sought out one of the prime suspects for the murder at the heart of our tale, one Demitri Giampetroni, at his place of an employment, a pub. Unfortunately, through the intervention of our heroine's friends, Alice and Jane, Demitri had just discovered Ms. Swan's link with Edward Cullen. He was not pleased._

"You know Edward Cullen?" Demitri growled.

"Uh, I think we should go," I said, dropping a twenty on the bar. Over-tipping a potential serial killer and confirmed woman beater just seemed like common sense, if unjust.

"We haven't even had a drink," Jane pointed out, eyeing Demitri suspiciously.

"I know. But the night's young and I think they're out of peanuts."

"Damn right we're out of peanuts," Demitri snapped.

"Since when do we eat bar peanuts?" dear, sweet, oblivious Alice asked.

I was already off of the stool and was trying to pull Jane after me, not daring to cast another glance in Demetri's direction. If only Edward hadn't gone around left and right provoking everyone he suspected of murdering his ex-girlfriend.

Jane huffed, not budging. "Are you seriously yanking on my arm right now?"

It was a decided invasion of her personal space, but desperate times and all that. "Come on," I hissed.

Alice had already slid off her stool, finally having noticed Demitri. "You going to explain this?" she asked wearily, helping me pull Jane down.

"Let's just go."

We were out on the street when Jane planted her hands on her hips and refused to move another step. "What the fuck?"

"The bartender was creepy," I told her.

"Did he threaten you?"

"He was just creepy."

Jane dipped her hand inside her purse and had a Taser out before I could blink. "Do I need to take care of him for you?"

"Oh my fucking God, put that away. Why do you even have that?"

"Every woman should have one. It's just commonsense."

My commonsense had me over-tipping suspected serial killers and Jane's had her concealing weapons. How did Jane and I even know each other again?

Oh, that's right. It was Seth and his fucking penchant for collecting stray cats. _Meow._

"Can we please just go?" I begged, afraid that Demetri would suddenly appear on the street behind us.

Jane put the Taser away and Alice led the way to the taxi that had fortunately stopped for us.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

When Edward called the following night, I answered, even though I'd promised myself that I was going to start ignoring him. I answered again the following night and the one after that, driven to answer by my guilt over keeping my run-in with Demetri a secret from Edward. I didn't want him to know that I'd done something so foolish.

…though if Alice and Jane hadn't shown up early it might not have been such a disaster.

But what could Demitri have done to me really? I ought to have stayed and insisted on getting some answers.

So it was really my embarrassment over the cowardice I'd shown that kept me from telling Edward about what happened.

I even pretended that I was looking forward to going back to Forks for Homecoming.

If Edward hadn't been so eager to get on with the investigation, he might have seen through my pretense. As it was, I had difficulty believing that he could be so gullible as to imagine that my interest in finding Tanya's killer could possibly overshadow my trepidation over returning to a high school that I'd hated and my dread over seeing people whom I'd hated even more. Not that I shared any of my fears—_What could any of those people really do to me after all of this time?_—with Edward. It ought to have been obvious nevertheless. Edward was just being willfully blind.

Fortunately, I soon had other matters to occupy my attention. Halloween had finally arrived. My high holy day. The only festive occasion, in fact, that I would have celebrated had social obligations not demanded otherwise. I loved Halloween. It was my fondest wish to be like Vincent Price and Harry Houdini and die on Halloween so that whenever anyone remembered me (because in my dream, I was remembered) they would say _And you _know_ she died on Halloween. Oooh_.

I didn't mind being the center of attention on Halloween. I would always wear a costume, all day, everywhere I went, even in lecture, even in departmental meetings. I didn't care.

If the following two months of forced good cheer and feigned happy relations were going to be shoved down my throat—too many Thanksgivings and Christmases spent cleaning up my mother's alcohol-induced vomit—then I was going to get my bitter Halloween in first. Besides, it seemed to me that the profusion of green and the occasional blasts of chill air were the only differences between the real hell—if it existed—and the Dante's _Inferno_ of screaming, biting, greedy hands grasping, bell ringing, lights blinking, noise blaring, fiery hot mall crowding, snotty children shrieking and red riot of fiendishness that was the Christmas season. The season of giving my ass. More like the season of wanting and taking.

So Halloween was my Christmas.

On Halloween, nothing was as it was supposed to be. Everything was topsy-turvy, upside down. The rich were poor and the poor were rich. The good were bad and the bad were good. The dead were alive again and the living were dead. Virgins were sluts and sluts were virgins. A ritual of inversion to exorcise the demons, so that we didn't run amuck the rest of the year (…except for the months of November and December, of course).

Halloween-haters had it all wrong. Halloween wasn't about devil-worship. It was about the expression of the repressed and the release of all those pent up energies that might just explode otherwise. It was about fun and candy.

If every day was Halloween, I might not have hated Christmas so much.

This year, Alice was throwing a party. I didn't like parties but they provided another chance to wear my costume. And the point of a costume wasn't just inversion, it was competition.

I always had the best costume. Which isn't to say that everyone always understood my costume or that I ever won the contest (costumes that aren't understood rarely win). Having the best costume meant explaining the persona in question via reference to some eldritch (_Lovecraft, sigh_) piece of literature or obscure Asian film, and hearing your acquaintance say _Holy shit, you're right, that chic from _The Audition_ is totally creepy,_ and then being eyed uneasily.

This year, I was an undead school marm for work (Boring—But whatcha gonna do? It's work), but for Alice's party, I was the damsel tied to the train tracks. I had the white petticoat and corset. The cream stockings and the black little boots. The black ringlets and the kewpie doll make-up. For train tracks, I'd nailed together planks of wood and had spray painted them black, gluing on bits of fake moss. There was even a rope wrapped around my waist and torso, securing the tracks to my back.

Let the other ladies dress up like slutty angels and slutty devils. I was a silent film ingénue.

Alice burst out laughing when she saw me.

"What?" I asked, looking down at myself. Had my corset fallen too low? Fortunately, my ribs had stopped hurting for the most part, so the fact that my corset dug in to my side as the fabric steadily crept down my torso caused mostly embarrassment and only a little pain.

"Did you and Edward plan this?"

"Plan what?"

Alice shook her head. "I'll let you find out for yourself."

I scowled at my friend, who was dressed like a wood elf. So cliché. And then I saw Jasper across the room dressed up like a freaking hobbit and it all made sense. Stepping quickly to the side, I narrowly avoided knocking into Jasper as he raced towards Alice, screaming for his _precious_.

Maneuvering around a party with train tracks strapped to your back is just as difficult as it sounds. The tracks were both unwieldy and heavy. Securing a set location was key. I took up position by the speakers.

"I expected you to be a living dead girl," Edward said, sliding up next to me.

I glanced at him and frowned. Jaunty black top hat. Twirly black mustache. Black suit, pistols in a belt around his waist and a watch hanging from a pocket chain.

He was a dastardly villain who ties women to train tracks.

"Who do you think you are?" I demanded.

"A dastardly villain who ties women to train tracks," he replied.

"I don't like your costume," I lied.

"Well I like yours."

I yanked up the top of my corset. "I didn't wear it for you."

Edward glanced around the twenty or so people crowded around Alice's apartment. "It doesn't seem like Dudley Do-Right was on the guest list. So I guess you'll have to just make due with me."

"Hmmph. Shows what you know. And living dead girl is passé." I glared at a living dead girl as she tried to dance, a twisting manic stagger.

"Jealous?"

"Puh-lease. I did that look five years ago when it was actually interesting. And it's not even worth trying without a Svengali to back you up."

"Did you have a Svengali to back you up?"

I held my head up proudly. "_I_ did not _need_ a Svengali."

He laughed. "I like you like this."

I looked down at myself. "Like what?" Looking like a fool?

"Not giving a shit what other people think."

"Why should I care what they think? They don't give a fuck about me."

"That's not true."

I rolled my eyes.

Edward wasn't about to let it go though. "You go around saying that you don't like people, but I know it's not true. Jasper says everyone likes you at the university." He had given me this speech before. Why did he care? Maybe it was just Halloween—it had put him in a rambunctious mood. But he wasn't tying _me_ to any train tracks.

"I try not to treat people like shit. It's not the same thing as being popular."

"Still. I just don't think you're as unfriendly as you pretend."

"Everyone needs people. Isn't that what they say? Even social rejects. So you try to fill whatever niche you can. But it's not real. You just do it so that you don't go crazy." Hadn't we had this conversation before? I wondered if he was ever going to get it.

"Why isn't it real? If you've got something in common and enjoy spending time together, isn't that enough?"

"It's not like they're going to be there if you ever really need them. We are all alone. Fact. You have to stand on your own feet. People don't like hearing that, so you lie and dole out platitudes about friendship."

"I don't think that's true. If you can't depend on your friends and family, who can you depend on?"

He was full of shit.

"Are your friends and family standing by you for this thing with Tanya?" I asked him. "Have they got your back?"

"They think that they're helping," Edward frowned, making excuses.

Hmph. Maybe it wasn't for me to judge. "Well that's fine for you. Not everyone has that though."

"So it's really just you and your books? Everything else is fake?"

Edward was just like everyone else, I decided, trying to change my mind, as if I was suffering some condition for which there might be a cure. "It's not so bad. It's less exhausting than actually trying to win people over. Always trying to conform."

Edward snorted. "You conform? I thought you were being yourself."

I chuckled darkly. "No one wants that. I haven't anything in common with other people, anyhow. They've got—" I struggled to explain it. "—experience. When they want to justify something, they refer to things they've done. And what have I got? Nothing. When they want my opinion on something, what am I supposed to say? The closest I've ever come to a kindred spirit was in a book. All gloom and shadows. No one is going to take your opinion on their love life seriously when you start quoting _Annabelle Lee_. But that's the only time I feel like I'm myself. Imagining that I'm walking down the streets of Providence like Lovecraft. Alone." I glanced up at Edward to find him watching me intensely.

"You don't have to be alone," he said gruffly.

I was a bit taken aback by the seriousness of his tone. "But I like it." Besides, it was irrelevant. "People tolerate me. They don't like me."

"I think that they like you a lot more than you realize."

I wasn't at all comfortable with the turn that this conversation had taken. I shrugged, trying to blow him off. Spying Alice with a tray of dead men's fingers (shortbread with almonds) that I'd made, I said that I'd see him later, and awkwardly made my way over to her, turning sideways so that my train tracks wouldn't hit anyone and apologizing when they did.

"Talk to me so that Edward will leave me alone," I begged Alice.

"Why? If he wants to talk to you I think you should let him."

"Alice!"

"What?"

"I don't want to talk to him."

"I think maybe you _do_."

I stuck my nose up in the air haughtily, and said, "I don't know _what _you are talking about." I didn't think that she was being very supportive either. And my ribs hurt.

"I think that you like _talking _to him and I think that you like him _talking _to you."

"Shhh!" I grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away from where Edward was now _talking_ to Jasper. "Stop it. We're just friends."

"Oh, so now you're friends with Edward? I thought you said people don't change."

"They don't. And we're _not _friends. It's just for a while. Temporary associates. Until this thing with Tanya's done."

Alice shoved the tray into the hands of a zombie paramedic (_zombie paramedic? really?_) and turned towards me. "Just how long is that going to take? When's this case going to be over?"

"You know what? We're almost done. There's not much left to do." Nothing that I thought would be productive at least.

"You found the killer!"

"No. But I don't think there's much more that we can try, short of questioning everyone who ever stepped foot in Forks."

"So what now?"

"You already know about Homecoming. After that, I am going to wait a few weeks. By then it'll be obvious that we're not going to make any progress, and I'll tell Edward that it's over."

Alice crossed her arms over her chest. "You know, Jasper was really upset when he heard that Edward was looking into all of this again. He said that Edward had been obsessing over this for years. In a not healthy way."

"That's not my fault. Edward's the one who got me into this, not the other way around. And he promises, as soon as I say _it's over_, it'll be over. He'll be done for good."

"I hope so. I really like Jasper."

I stared at Alice. "You really like him?"

"Yeah."

"Does he know?"

She laughed. "I think that he knows that I like him. He even—"

"No, I mean, does he _know?_"

Alice dropped her eyes. "He knows something."

I didn't want to, but I had to say it. "You have to tell him everything. If you're serious about him."

"I will."

I wanted to say something more, but I couldn't. I wouldn't press it. The words would be too cruel.

Jasper came over and had Alice smiling again within minutes. I endeavored to mingle then, shimmying around the apartment with my back to the wall so that my train tracks didn't pose much of a threat.

Pretending to be sociable for a short amount of time was something at which I'd acquired some proficiency. If I had never met the person with whom I was speaking, I could compliment them on their costume (lying, if necessary), ask them how they knew Alice, and ask them what they did for a living. Each of these questions often spawned a series of sub-questions. If I _had_ met the person before, I could apologize for forgetting absolutely everything that I knew about them, and ask all of the same questions. As long as I didn't spend too much time with any one person or any cluster of people, I could manage to avoid becoming annoying. And I thought that flittering around the crowd made me seem like the very life of the party, rather than, as was actually the truth, an indifferent misanthrope who didn't care enough about the people with whom she was engaging to remember their names for more than a few minutes at a time.

Now and then, I caught a glimpse of Edward smirking at me from across the room as he engaged in idle chitchat with whoever happened to be nearest to him at the time.

Why should Edward Cullen have been watching me? Annoyed by the attention, I turned deliberately away, every time, which was difficult because of the train tracks.

Once or twice, I saw women trying to capture Edward's attention. Beautiful women too, in slutty Halloween costumes that looked store-bought. Boring.

I didn't know why the sight bothered me. Why shouldn't Edward talk to beautiful women? He _should_ talk to beautiful women.

I would turn away, my train tracks knocking into arms and tables and walls, determined not to be thought spying, but before I could complete the turn, Edward would catch my eye, glancing up from whatever woman happened to be before him at the time, smirking at me, always smirking.

After a few hours, when the party had become too loud to make easy conversation, and the burden of having a costume that I had to keep explaining had faded—_Who the fuck has never seen a silent film clip of a woman tied to the train tracks? The education system today, I swear!—_I bid Alice farewell, slung my coat over my arm and headed for the door, too hot to consider pausing to put the coat on.

I passed Edward on my way out, which couldn't be avoided, and nodded as I went.

"Leaving?" he asked, falling into step beside me, leaving behind a Jessica Rabbit lookalike.

"I am."

"I'll walk you out."

I considered protesting, but then decided to permit this false show of chivalry as it probably wasn't advisable to walk down the street by myself at this hour, especially as I didn't have Jane's Taser.

I balked, however, at Edward's attempt to take my keys from me and open the door of my truck. Unfortunately, since I was wrestling with my train tracks when he offered, he succeeded in executing that purported demonstration of chivalry as well.

Being the helpful gentleman that he was, Edward then offered to help me with my train tracks. I declined his offer.

"Just let me help you," he insisted, as if knowing that the opportunities for gallantry were limited, and he was intent upon seizing every one of them before it was too late.

So we were fumbling with ropes and knots under a streetlight at eleven o'clock at night. It was a trifle chilly, and my fingers were already numb. I ought to have taken the train tracks off in Alice's apartment and put on my coat then, of course, but that would have required the exercise of some logic.

"Sorry," Edward said, as his fingers brushed against my skin above the top of my corset, fumbling with a loop.

"No, I'm sorry," I said, trying to squirm away and untie myself at the same time.

It was a struggle, but we eventually freed me from the train tracks. Thoroughly mortified, I tossed the rope and the now crooked planks of wood into the back of the truck and climbed awkwardly inside.

Edward waited until I was comfortable to tell me goodnight. Then, suddenly, leaning through the open door and putting his lips to my ear, he whispered, "I'll be your Svengali anytime." And withdrawing quickly, he slammed the door shut.

It took me a full minute to come to my senses. Hurriedly snapping my seatbelt into place and shoving the key into the ignition, I started my truck and pulled away, completely forgetting to bid Edward a happy Halloween.

_My God,_ I thought in horror, _am I…_attracted_ to Edward Cullen?_

**AN: **

**Word to the wise—don't watch **_**The Audition**_**. If you do, don't blame me. It's by no means scary (except for one shot that had me literally jumping straight up into the air), but it's one of the most disturbing movies I've ever seen and often makes Top 10 lists of the horror genre. **

**Rec: 29 Dimensions by Catastrophia **Tired of looking for Mr. Right in all the wrong places Bella is pushed toward online dating by her friends. Just who will she meet, or not meet with 29 dimensions of compatibility at play? Find out! Rated M AH/AU Slightly OOC - Rated: M - English - Romance/Humor - Chapters: 14 - Words: 37,295 - Reviews: 739 - Favs: 1,153 - Follows: 572 - Updated: Jul 23, 2013 - Published: Jan 14, 2011 - Bella, Edward - Complete


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns characters and I own plot with this exception: Harperpitt's **_**You Were There**_** inspired Seth's character and the gallery opening (and a certain someone's response). **

Chapter 16

'_I still bore the figure and lineaments of a human creature; but I knew that I was not what I seemed.' – Godwin _

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic, _the unthinkable happened. Our heroine realized that she was…falling for Edward Cullen._

I was not myself. There was no other way to explain it. Nightmares of Edward Cullen fiendishly overseeing the tortures of my youth in a manner befitting the Marquis de Sade had given way to dreams of Edward Cullen no less cruelly taunting me with the suggestion of acts that I could not recall during waking hours without blushing.

How was this possible?

I couldn't remember the last time that I'd experienced such thoughts—such feelings—for someone who wasn't a book collector dead some twelve hundred years or a fictional character in a book. A flesh and blood man who, though it would take hell freezing over and pigs taking to flight, could actually _be_ with _me_.

Be _with_ me.

_Be with me._

No. This was not to be borne.

I was not some stupid teenager with a crush. I would not succumb to the insubstantial fancies of fairy tale fluff. I was not a victim to biology, subject to hormones or pheromones or any other kind of moans.

I had no time for that.

It was nothing but confusion and wanting and pining when there were other things to be done.

It was irrational and inefficient and a waste of time.

It was pointless and hopeless and not worth my energy.

Because nothing could ever come of it. Even if there was a chance that my thoughts/feelings/desires might be reciprocated—and _that_ beggared the imagination—it was impossible. I was incapable of fulfilling the required role. I couldn't follow those rules, and even if I could, such things required practice, and I simply couldn't practice. You can't rehearse something when the opportunity's never arisen, when it's the first time and the only time in years at least that you've felt anything even remotely like this and when you have no reason to think there'll ever be another time and, to be honest, you have no desire for there to be another time, either, because it's _this_ one man _this _one time and you can't imagine anything else. You don't _want_ anything else.

I wasn't myself. Who was I normally? Not interested, that's who. Not interested ever. _I do not want it. Not male not female not male dressed like female not female dressed like male not white not black nor any other variation. I do not want it Sam I am._ It bespoke nightmares and things I never wanted to remember. Which of course just meant that I was broken as far as everyone was concerned. Something to be scoffed at. A joke. Invalid. Because how could I possibly refer to_ experience_ to justify it, when it was by definition _absence_? How could I prove that what was undone, unmade, was meant to be that way and should never be any other way when everyone always wanted it done, made, the lack thereof constituting disease? The abhorrence of it a kind of fetishization just as bad as its opposite, that mania for innocence in the Victorian Age, when prostitutes had stitches put in to satisfy the demand. _How did it become a virus?_ I wondered. Something that, at the best, was meant to be cured, a perversion brought about by trauma or shame or social anxiety or _What the hell is wrong with you anyway_? Even Alice and Seth thinking that it was something to be fixed or to be overcome or to _just get drunk so that you can get it done_ so that it's no longer an issue. Respect for one's sexual preferences only going so far as to ensure that you _are _fucking someone, anyone, just so long as you were fucking, because that was the American way, capitalism depending on the breeding of new members for the proletariat, and if you weren't doing it then something was wrong with you. So much for tolerance. Never mind that just the thought makes you want to put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger because you don't feel anything. Nothing. You just feel dead inside, the coldness leeching from the center and spreading all over your body except for sometimes, your skin, which you want to tear off.

That was me. Living dead girl indeed.

How could anyone question that? If I was dead, then there wasn't any point in asking me why I couldn't feel anything. Pump me full of electricity like Frankenstein's monster, and I'd just jerk on the table. Flatline.

Besides, being a corpse was better than enduring this newfound deluge of sensation that was now engulfing me—better than becoming this thing that wasn't me. This creature of nervous energy and agitation, heartbeat erratic and thoughts scurrying this way and that, inconsistent.

As if Edward—_Edward Cullen_—could _ever_ be anything to me. I loathed him.

Which was a joke, because really, it was the other way around. Edward would never seeanything in me. I turned his stomach.

I remembered again the sound of utter loathing in his voice when he used to talk to me. 'Why do you have to be so ugly?' he'd asked me one day as I sat down at the lab table we shared. I hadn't known the answer. Oh, how I'd wished that I had.

I remembered how Jasper would make vomiting noises as I passed in the hallway. James even made up a song about me—I couldn't recall the exact words but it had a catchy beat. After all this time, I would be a fool to still be hung up on any of that. If looked at from the right angle, it was sad really, their feeble attempts at cruelty merely childish. It was farce. The memory ought to make me laugh. Ha ha!

'Did you splash some on your face?' Edward asked the day we worked with hydrochloric acid, and just for a second, I'd considered tossing the contents of the beaker up at my face, just because. Because if the sight of my face already made a person want to vomit then what would it matter, and it was hurting so much already that it might as well hurt some more—it would be a comfort really, to have a tangible source of pain to put with the intangible pain that their words caused. _Stupid girl_. Because why should mere words hurt so much? _No one would help you_, I'd thought, looking around the room at my classmates with the beaker of acid in my hands. _Not even the teacher. They'd just watch._ I'd imagined their faces twisting with perverted glee as they watched me writhing on the floor: _Burn the beast!_

So why, if I had to feel _something_ for someone after all of this time, why, oh why did it have to be Edward Cullen?

I would be an idiot to let myself anguish over incidents a decade old. And I didn't. Until now. It wasn't so bad being ugly, not once I'd accepted it. I'd decided that the world did children a disservice, telling them that they were pretty or handsome when they really weren't, and then acting like it mattered one way or another. After all, the irregularities of a person's face were just another feature, like skin color or height. That such characteristics were sometimes held up for ridicule was quite nonsensical. If anything, it was people pretending that it didn't matter that hurt nowadays. People asking me why I wasn't more outgoing. Why I didn't try more. Why I didn't wear more make-up or sign up for any dating websites. Because, they said, there was hope _even for people like me. _As if I should keep trying and trying for some goal that I knew that I could never attain—the love of someone who wouldn't think I was ugly when really, at best, they could only love me _despite _my looks—while everything I _had _accomplished didn't mean a damn thing. Never mind that _I_ might have standards myself. That I might not be willing to settle for someone who was willing to settle for someone who looked like me. In college, drunken frat boys had said that I wasn't too ugly to fuck, which I supposed was meant as a compliment. And Seth said that if I would just bother to put in a little effort that I could get a guy to pay attention, but it always seemed like too much work. When it came down to it, I'd still be the same person, so why try? Just the previous semester, a student had written in an evaluation that I was a 'hideous pig.' The 'pig' part I thought was a bit much, unless it was a commentary on the size of my nose. But the 'hideous' part was probably fair, even if the student was just angry that he or she hadn't gotten an A. Being ugly was usually a comfort, really. At least I was already at rock bottom—which was an exaggeration of sorts, I knew that I wasn't really that bad, but I liked to think that I was doing a public service nonetheless just by walking into a room. 'At least I'm not her,' I'd imagine people telling themselves as they scanned my face.

I'd even thought of writing a blog—if I could just find someone to explain to me what a blog was—_The Advantages of Being Ugly, Or Why the World Would Be Worse off without the Worst._

Thanks to my looks, for instance, it was easier to escape notice. I could come and go without anyone taking any real notice. A pretty woman now, she would be noticed. She'd probably get people wanting to do her favors too, but it was a trade-off, wasn't it? She could commit a crime and no one would care but I could completely disappear off of the face of the planet while she couldn't so much as pick up her dry cleaning without five people noting the time of her arrival and departure.

So all of this new nonsense with Edward was a sick gag. It was a confusion of categories. We didn't run in the same crowds, to put it mildly.

I had to stop this before it went any further. _Remember who you are_, I chastised myself.

I tried to be rational. I decided to write down a list of all of the reasons why the notions that I was entertaining were impossible. I started with the obvious, the words "high school" written in letters that covered half the page. I circled the words over and over again before I realized that that was in part the problem—my misplaced anger at Edward for being incapable of wanting the girl that I'd been back then. It was a juvenile preoccupation on my part at best. A grotesque infantilism at worst.

I was no better than Alice, living out some twisted adolescent fantasy, obsessed with someone I was better off forgetting.

I decided to focus on Edward then. List all of the reasons that I could never allow myself to care for a person like him. "High school," was rewritten on a fresh sheet of paper, in small letters that fit between the lines, because whether or not he'd just been telling me the truth all of those times when he'd told me how ugly I was, he'd taken joy in my suffering, and how could I ever care for a person who was capable of such cruelty?

What else? I wrote down that he was a doctor, and rich, and that he let his mother decorate his apartment, which he called a condominium, and that he played ragtime on the piano—because, really, playing ragtime on the piano was just _one _plus too many, wasn't it? A piling up of the virtues until they became vice. Overkill. He claimed that he almost went to Julliard. Sounded like bullshit to me.

People thought that Edward was good looking, I remembered, adding it to the list and huffing. What did other people know anyhow? Sheep all following the herd. Incapable of thinking for themselves. His nose was crooked. I wrote that down. He wasn't perfect. He had flaws. Then I crossed that out because according to my schema a flaw was a plus.

He was conceited. I remembered him patting his abs that morning in the bed and breakfast (how dedicated could he be to medicine if he had time to exercise?) and laughing at me. As if I cared.

He didn't wear pajamas. That was lazy as well as inconsiderate of anyone who might happen to come barging into his bedroom. One shouldn't just assume that others wish to be subjected to the sight of copious amounts of bare flesh.

Edward was annoyingly chivalrous, which was suspicious in and of itself. He was, no doubt, overcompensating. Or else he was trying to get women to drop their guards so that they became vulnerable. He wanted them to forget how to do things for themselves so that they would have no chance of fending him off when he swooped in for the kill.

And he thought that he was so smart. Ha! I was smarter than him about all of the things that truly mattered. About books and ideas and history—the lessons from the past without which the future would be just déjà vu all over again.

What good would a doctor be in the zombie apocalypse anyhow? Doctors were probably going to be the ones responsible for setting it off.

When the world did come to an end, the last people on earth would want storytellers—historians—there to quote from the old books and to offer some solace, not doctors trying to patch them together to prolong the agony.

I could have been a doctor if I'd wanted.

I looked down at my list and realized that entirely too much time had gone into writing it. Time all spent thinking about Edward when I had been doing too much of just that over the past several weeks. And not sensible useful thinking related to the rumination I was supposed to be conducting on the subject of Tanya's killer. No. I recalled times over the past few weeks when I had been in the midst of making breakfast or driving to work or walking to class with Edward in my thoughts, thinking of a joke that he had made or a clever thing that he'd said. The way that he would sometimes laugh _at_ me as if he was actually laughing _with_ me.

I hadn't even written the worst of Edward's crimes on my list, the specifics of those deeds he'd once committed. Things for which I could never and would never forgive him. I shied away from remembering the details—the _Roiling Abyss_—I wanted none of that. But I'd never forgive him either.

I put a rubber band around my wrist so that I could snap it every time I caught myself thinking about him.

I refused to answer my phone the following night when Edward called. And the night after that and the night after that. I put my phone on silent so that I couldn't hear it ring. I blocked his number. Then I unblocked it in case he needed to reach me with something about the case or about Alice.

At night, I would put my cell on my nightstand and stare at it, waiting for Edward's call, afraid that he wouldn't—didn't I matter enough for him to keep trying?—and wishing that I didn't care.

I'd watch the phone rattle across the wood, my heart in my throat, my fingers clutching my blanket, refusing to move.

I knew what would happen if I answered. I knew very well that he would _sound_ like he was happy to talk to me, but he wouldn't be, not really. We weren't friends. We were absolutely nothing to each other. And I hated him, didn't I? It was better for us to begin cutting ties now. Restrict our relationship solely to the confines of our search for Tanya's murderer. It was too confusing otherwise.

When the weekend was over, I returned to class and tried to throw myself into my research, but something was off. Bree Tanner was still missing from lectures and I was in no mood for the overwrought sentiment and misplaced passions of lurid gothic tragedies. They reeked too much of impossibility.

My wrists began to really hurt from snapping the rubber band, even after switching from my left wrist to my right. So instead, I'd look down at the bright red skin and think _Stop. _

It was no help.

I hated myself for what I was feeling. I hated myself for feeling anything at all.

I couldn't really care anything for Edward. I couldn't.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The day of Seth's gallery opening, I woke up early so that I could get a head start on the lengthy preparation process required for the appetizers. The project would have gone much more quickly had I sought out help, but I didn't want company. Much better to do it all myself.

So I was up at six making peppermint cake balls, tiny spinach quiches and tomato-mozzarella skewers. Any other time, I would have enjoyed the peace that can be expected to come of mindless repetition and the successful completion of a large task that, like the birthday cakes I baked and the happy hours that I planned, declared that I cared about maintaining the social fabric without actually requiring me to socialize. Unfortunately, my mind was too busy—besieged by the most foolhardy of notions regarding a certain person—and I was completely riled up by the time night fell.

I transported the appetizers in trays out to my truck, adorned the costume that Alice had selected for me—a bare-shouldered bright blue cocktail dress with a peacock's feather for my hair—and drove to the gallery.

Seth had hired a couple of waiters, so I let them take the trays out of the truck and set up the food. Seth was already at the gallery, of course, freaking out about how many people were coming and whether or not so-and-so from this or that art review would be there. Jane was wandering around making snide comments, which was probably _de rigueur_ for a gallery opening. There were some other people milling about who I didn't know, Seth's partners or their minions, I supposed. The gallery was actually a joint venture between Seth and a couple of other artists, with some sort of community tie-in as well, something to do with revitalization and whatnot. The gallery itself was on the ground floor in a row of two-story brick edifices all engaged in what looked like an urban renewal project.

I hid in the corner behind Jane, trading mean quips with her about the patrons as they began to trickle in.

"What do you think of this picture?" Jane asked.

I turned to look at a black and white photograph in a woodland setting with a man in a suit grasping the base of a short tree, the uppermost branches of which resembled the form of a young woman, the transformation aided via some fancy developing techniques or computer manipulation, I supposed. Apollo and Daphne.

"He's very good looking," Jane observed of the man in the photo.

"Hmph."

"You don't think so?"

"Anyone can be good looking. It's so boring." I waved a hand. "A truly grotesque individual, now that would really be something. The lack of symmetry. The incongruity of design. Who was it who said '_There is no beauty that doth not have something disproportionate in its form'_ or something like that? You can have your Apollo. I'll take Mr. Rochester."

"Didn't Michael Fassbender play Rochester?" I heard a familiar voice ask to my right.

Pausing to verify that I was in full possession of my faculties, I steeled myself before glancing over.

The speaker was standing beside me, his stance nonchalant, as if nothing at all had changed between us—so very much had changed, didn't he know?—dressed in a suit not unlike that of the fellow in the photo and holding a beer from the makeshift bar set up in the corner of the gallery.

"It is a pity that Fassbender isn't uglier than he is," I admitted. I looked at Jane. "Jane, Edward. Edward, Jane." I stepped back to put more distance between Edward and myself.

She looked him up and down. "Are you one of the models?"

"One of the what?"

"He's a doctor," I snapped at Jane. Idiot.

"Of what?" she asked.

"Medicine."

She rolled her eyes and went back to the Apollo and Daphne.

"Jane's an acupuncturist," I told Edward. "She sticks needles in people because it's more effective than voodoo dolls."

"Another one who hates doctors?" Edward asks.

"Just close-minded bigots," Jane smiled maliciously.

"I'm open to alternatives," Edward argued.

"As long as it doesn't cut into the AMA's PAC fund."

"Oh, I think Seth wants to talk to me," I interrupted. "I'll just—see you."

I could feel Jane rolling her eyes behind my back as I made my escape.

I was surprised when Edward followed me, though I probably shouldn't have been shocked that he didn't want to continue debating superfunds or whatever they were called with Jane. "Isn't Jasper, here?" I asked him, because I wanted him to go away. What was Edward doing here anyway?

"He's with Alice somewhere. Weren't you looking for your friend? Seth?"

"No."

"Do you lie often?"

"Only when it's to my advantage."

"Is there any other way?"

I chuckled, hoping that the nervousness in my voice came off like my excitement over the gallery opening. "Oh, my little Edward, so naïve." I scanned the crowd, looking for Alice, because she at least could help provide a buffer between me and Edw—

No, not _Edward_. It would be better to avoid the imagined intimacy of birth names.

"Have you had a chance to look at much of it?" _Cullen_ asked, jerking his head towards the walls.

I hadn't, not wanting to impede the first arrivals. I didn't answer but Cullen took my elbow and pulled me towards a display anyway, my skin burning where his fingers touched me. Cullen dropped my arm as soon as we reached our destination and I resisted the temptation to rub my arm, determined instead to throw myself into _art appreciation_ and the manifold distractions therein.

The first display consisted of four pen and ink drawings of a woman, semi-nude, wrapped in some diaphanous fabric and standing amidst columns. Very Maxfield Parrish. She was beautiful.

"She's beautiful," I said lowly, to show Cullen that I was able to recognize it when I saw it, suffering no delusions on that score.

"She is," he agreed.

The artwork gave me a welcome excuse for not looking at Cullen directly. I didn't think that I could bear it. If only he would leave me alone. I kept waiting for him to drift away, but he stayed by my side as we moved from display to display.

We paused in front of some free-standing sculptures of materials all in tan colors—hair and canvas and straw and string.

"I like this one," I said stopping in front of another sculpture that looked like a printing press undergoing vivisection. Gray bits of metal and bolts and strange glass tubes, with torn bits of paper in stacks and stuck in vices.

"I'm not surprised," Cullen observed. "It's very bookish."

We went around to the other exhibits slowly, as the crowd would allow. I wanted to stop in front of some of the displays and just stare—I wanted to go back to that printing press again, for instance, and threw a longing glance at it back over my shoulder every once in a while—but I didn't want to hold anyone up. I could come back another day, when there would be time to just look.

I was very trepidatious of one exhibit in particular, even though I knew that I'd no real reason to be. Seth had shown me the images beforehand, so I knew what to expect. But the experience of seeing the pictures in public, surrounded by all of these people, was more than a little disconcerting, especially with Cullen right beside me.

As we got closer and closer to the wall where the pictures were hanging, I decided that I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear coming face to face with the pictures now. Even more importantly, I couldn't bear the thought of Cullen seeing them.

Turning to Cullen, keeping my eyes trained somewhere over his shoulder for fear that my expression would give me away should my gaze meet his, I started to ask if he wanted something to eat, when Seth suddenly appeared out of nowhere and threw his arm around my shoulders.

"Is this not fucking awesome?" Seth demanded, taking the crowd in.

"It is," I congratulated him sincerely. I was very happy for him.

Seth looked at Edw—Cullen. "And the food's almost gone. Everyone loves it. Makes them feel like they're really getting something out of the evening—dinner _and_ a show. Did you know that Bella made the food?"

"All of it?" Cullen asked.

"Yep," Seth answered for me. "I couldn't have done this without her, you know. And not just because she let me take her picture."

Fuck.

"There's a picture of Bella here?" Cullen glanced around curiously.

Seth laughed. "She's got pictures alright. Make sure you check them out. They're what I like to think of as stage one of my gothic period. I'm all about steampunk and warehouses now. That's stage two. I haven't decided yet if there's going to be a stage three." Seth squeezed my shoulders again and said he had some high-rollers to roll, before abandoning me to my fate.

"Let's go see them," Cullen suggested, all-too eager, it seemed, to see me suffer.

I tried to put him off. "They're not really anything," I explained. "It's just a thing. Seth is—Seth. And I'm in them, but they're not really pictures of _me._ I mean, it could be anyone. They're just pictures."

"Come on," Cullen urged, grabbing my elbow again and pulling me towards one of the few alcoves we'd not yet explored. "I want to see them."

He pulled us quickly past some industrial scenes, tsking at not finding what he was looking for.

Glancing disinterestedly at another bunch, he started to pull me away again but I stopped him. "Here they are," I said, my voice breaking nervously.

I turned away from the wall, hoping that he wouldn't make a big deal out of it and that we could just go. They were just pictures, barely eight and a half by eleven in size. They didn't matter.

Yet Cullen stayed rooted in place. I stepped away and paused but he didn't follow. I couldn't leave him alone to simply peruse my pictures at his leisure. I returned to his side hesitantly, my eyes on the ground, feeling sick and jittery, ready for action, as if there was a stage villain aiming a gun at us from behind a curtain. As if I could throw myself in front of the bullet that had already left the gun and just stop it in its tracks.

I tried to laugh. "I know. They're pretty ridiculous." I felt my hands shaking.

"Ridiculous?" Cullen asked. _Asked?_ No, not asked, _snarled_.

The venom in his voice took me aback. I couldn't quite make sense of it. Still looking around for the stage villain with the gun and nauseated with anxiety over everyone seeing the pictures—which was stupid because you couldn't even see my face, not really—and on top of everything that I'd been obsessing about with regards to Cullen over the last few days and with—_dear God_—the realization that this was _Edward Cullen_ standing next to me in front of these pictures, I wasn't at my best. I heard the revulsion but I didn't make the obvious connection.

"Yeah," I said weakly, passing a hand over my forehead in a foolish meaningless gesture, as if hiding my face could do anything to improve the situation.

"They're disgusting," Cullen spat, the hatred in his voice unmistakable.

**AN: **

**Rec: Up by Miss Baby **An uphill love story about a girl, a boy, their friends, lots of bicycles, one big mountain and a promise to a dying man that turned into a life changing event. Twilight - Rated: M - English - Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 21 - Words: 55,436 - Reviews: 505 - Favs: 231 - Follows: 233 - Updated: Jul 17, 2013 - Published: Mar 8, 2013 - Bella, Edward – Complete


	20. Chapter 20

**I feel very boring. Many of you had much better suggestions for what's going on in those pictures than what you're going to read below. :(**

**So many of you also shared amazing stories with me about things you've gone through. Thank you so much! **

**Thanks for reading! Posting on Wednesdays now.**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 17

'_God hath forsaken me, &amp; my friends are become a burden_

_A weariness to me, &amp; the human footsteps is a terror to me.'_

William Blake

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, our heroine was escorting Edward Cullen around a newly opened art gallery. They had just come face-to-face with some portraits of Ms. Swan. His reaction was decidedly negative: '"They're disgusting," Cullen spat, the hatred in his voice unmistakable.'_

Disgusting?

It took me a minute, standing there trembling with nerves and scared—yes, scared of everything. It took me a minute to really understand what Cullen was saying. And then it hit me.

Oh. The pictures Seth had taken of me were disgusting. _I_ was disgusting.

I ought to have just laughed it off. I ought to have said it was a joke. That that was the point. The attenuation of the grotesque in inverse proportion to the beauty of the image that Seth was parodying, like the mannerists perverting the symmetry of the classical forms.

I didn't say any of that though.

_Not bad_, I'd thought to myself, looking at the prints in Seth's studio. I'd gone so far as to imagine that maybe, just maybe, Seth had managed to make me attractive for once. The curve of a hip. The elongation of an arm.

The pictures had been inspired by Fuseli's _The Nightmare_. My body in a filmy nightgown was laid out on a bed, one of my arms thrown over my face, the small statue of a grotesque animal sitting on my stomach and the portrait of a horse hanging on the wall above. The poses varied, the placement of my limbs and the statue and portrait changing from one photo to the next, but my face was always hidden. No viewer would be able to guess the identity of the woman portrayed if they hadn't already received a hint.

But Seth had told Cullen that it was me, and Cullen's reaction was clear enough. Utter revulsion.

Of course, this was only an insult if I acknowledged it as such. The rules of etiquette demanded that I ignore the slight lest the breech in the social fabric become noticeable.

And it wasn't an insult if it was true.

So why did it hurt?

The flash of pain was a heat that seared me to the core, ice spreading at the tinges, fire and ice, as I stood there next to Cullen. Beauty and the Beast. And I was the beast.

The worst part, I had to admit to myself, was that a part of me had _hoped_, yes _hoped_ that he would see the pictures and—

And what? That he would say what? That he thought I was beautiful in them? Was I insane?

I could compose list after list of the reasons why I shouldn't care for Cullen and it wouldn't matter. There was no _us_. There never could be an _us._ A woman might love an ugly man, but the reverse could never be true.

And reason dictates that one always acknowledges the truth.

The old me, the denizen of the _Roiling Abyss_ who'd let Cullen and his friends humiliate her day after day, who'd eaten lunch in her truck to avoid the gauntlet of the cafeteria, who for a while had stopped speaking to Alice at school entirely because neither one of us could take the things they'd say about us, who'd sat in biology class with her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms to keep herself from crying, the girl who'd thought _I won't come back tomorrow I won't come back tomorrow I won't come back tomorrow _and instead of crying had systematically gone through all of the ways that she might make her absence come about _with one of Charlie's guns with the exacto knife in the kitchen drawer with a glass of Drano_ _with one of Charlie's guns with the exacto knife in the kitchen drawer with a glass of Drano_ on repeat like a litany, soothing in its consistency, the old me would have stood there in that gallery with red cheeks and wouldn't have said a word because she wouldn't have been capable of pretending that it hadn't hurt.

But if there was a flash of pain like fire that seared me to the core, there was also a ring of ice along the tinges of the pain—a chill rationality born of the knowledge that Cullen was only speaking the truth—and it fostered a calm that settled my nerves so that, even though I could still feel my limbs trembling, I stood taller. It was the reason that I was able to look Cullen right in the eye.

"They _are_ gothic," I heard myself say with a slight sneer, as if Cullen's distaste for the images reflected his lack of culture, and my voice was somehow steady, too, even if it was like I was hearing it from a distance, like it wasn't even me talking.

He was shaking his head and looking around wild-eyed. "These pictures need to come down. Right now."

A peal of laughter sounded and it was a second before I registered that I was the one laughing. "It's not really that serious," I said. And it wasn't. A horror show. Halloween had just passed, after all. Spirit of the season. Tra-la-fucking-la.

Cullen sneered at me. "It's fucking obscene."

And I was done. "Yeah, you're probably right." I stared into the crowd. "Hey Mary," I called, raising a hand as if to a friend. "I'll be right back," I lied to Cullen, bowing my head so that I didn't have to look at him anymore. "Just want to say _hi_ to a friend."

I left him there to push my way through the throng, pretending to look for a woman who didn't exist. Mercifully, Cullen let me go, not following behind me like the fucking puppy he'd been imitating all night, so I knew that there was a God or something looking out for me and thanked whatever benevolent spirit had finally stepped in to save me.

Or maybe it was just that neither God nor Cullen saw the point in digging the knife in any further at that point. Humiliation complete. Goal accomplished.

I went to the bar but they were out of liquor and I didn't understand how that was possible when I hadn't even had one drink yet and didn't they know that I was the one who'd made all of the food and that I was friends with one of the owners and that pictures of my very own ill-proportioned form were gracing one of the walls?

I held onto the edge of the makeshift bar that wasn't serving anymore liquor because it was helping to hold me up and I looked around for Alice or Seth or even fucking Jane. But no luck. They were hiding or having fun or doing whatever the fuck they were supposed to be doing while I was steadily falling apart.

I closed my eyes and made myself take a deep breath.

_Just breathe_.

Giving up on anyone coming to rescue me, I took out my cell phone and pretended to fiddle with it. As soon as I calmed down, I was going to find Seth to congratulate him one last time because the fucking rules of etiquette said that it would be rude to just walk out.

But as the seconds passed, the numbing effects of icy reason began to fade, leaving nothing but dumb pain in its wake. An animal kind of pain that no exercise of logic could mute.

And as much as I knew that I should put it off, that I should just try to get through the next five minutes, then go home and let myself wallow in all of the self-loathing and recriminations that I deserved—_Because how stupid could I have been? To let Seth take my picture? To let him hang the photos up? To let Cullen see them? To think that I was falling for Cullen?_—my mind wouldn't listen and was racing already with the effort to understand. To make sense of it all. As if there could be a reasonable explanation that, once found, would show me where I went wrong so that I'd never make a mistake like this again. That would let me fix what had been broken.

Because it was a fucking farce. I mean, why did I care? It was the truth, so why did it hurt?

Fucking Hallmark Channel with all of their bullshit movies. Fact: The evolutionary imperative demanded that men attempt to spread their seed as much as possible while women attempted to secure a protector and provider, vestigial biological impulses that were obsolete now that women could take care of themselves, and what the fuck were men supposed to be good for anymore anyhow?

So why did it hurt?

I wasn't an idiot. I knew how it was.

Social ostracism ensured the breeding out of undesirable traits. Survival of the fittest. If anyone ever looked like they might want me, then that just meant that there was something seriously wrong with them.

My goal everyday: _Don't make people vomit when they have to look at you._

I really thought that I was pulling that off at least. I thought that I could pass for the barmaid from Manet's _A Bar at the Folies-Bergère_, at least when my face was expressionless. I would refuse to smile for pictures—not even when Seth was the one taking them—because I knew how whenever I laughed or spoke or grimaced, my face took on a resemblance to something from a Géricault or Bruegel, the mismatched planes of my face suggestive of madness, the mouth too wide and the wild unrefined features betraying signs of decadence and a taste for vulgar delights. I knew the burden it must be for people to have to look at someone like me, so I tried to follow the rules of etiquette to help make up for that. To make myself tolerable.

Maybe it had all been a joke: Years of no one mocking me—aside from the occasional angry student. Seth taking my pictures as if I was a worthy subject. Alice and Jane saying that no one ever asked for my number because I came off like such a bitch, like I wouldn't give anyone the time of day, and that that was the only reason.

Maybe all of it was just a joke. A prank. Because it was disgusting to think that someone like me—

"Look Bella, I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

I looked over my shoulder and there he was. Cullen, the asshole, which wasn't a fair assessment. I shouldn't dislike him for speaking the truth. He was simply performing his function in the social hierarchy, discouraging the proliferation of defective genes. _Well, good job._ If the _Roiling Abyss_ and my stepfather hadn't convinced me, Cullen had surely done a fine job of reminding me just how impossible anything like a relationship would be for me someone like me. _Ha!_ Even if the notion of a relationship wasn't so incongruous, who could I ever find to serve as a suitable match? Quasimodo?

No, they'd not want that—no young Quasimodos running around.

"Whatever," I said, hitching a shoulder and wishing I could play it off with greater _elan_. Pretend that I didn't know what he meant.

Why did it hurt?

Cullen ran a hand through his hair. His stupid hair. God, I hated it.

"Can we just pretend I didn't say anything?" he asked.

Why couldn't he just leave me alone? "My pleasure," I replied woodenly.

"I made an ass out of myself."

If he wouldn't leave me alone, couldn't he at least have the generosity to change the subject? Civilization was predicated on deception. We would lie to each other and go on acting civilized when in point of fact the two of us shouldn't have been speaking at all.

I lied. "Don't know what you're talking about." _Come on fucker, push me just a little further._ I imagined myself a tornado, engulfing the room and everything in it, gone, done. Like my mother—a thunderstorm out of control. No one had a right to see me like that. Unfettered. Myself.

My true feelings were for me and me alone.

Besides, everyone already thought I was disgusting. I couldn't imagine what they would think if they saw me really raging. Tiamat. Call up Marduk to come kill the beast.

I desperately scanned the crowd for a face I recognized, wanting anything but to continue this conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Cullen staring at me. What the fuck was he looking for? "I'm sorry," he said.

I wanted to throw my drink—if only I'd had a drink—in his face.

I laughed again, the mirth bubbling up hysterically. "For what?" It was absurd. The funniest fucking thing I'd ever heard.

I meant it too—_what_ was he apologizing for? For what he'd said before? Why bother, when it was nothing compared to everything he'd said so many years ago?

Or was _that_ what he was apologizing for? For the _Roiling Abyss._ What nonsense. To think that someone could _apologize _for something like that.

Not that he'd ever know. I'd never tell him. He'd never know how bad it had gotten. He'd no right.

And because I'd been wrong earlier, because there was no God, or because there was one and He just didn't give a fuck, Alice found us then. Alice and Jasper. After all, it only made sense that high school pals should be reunited for something like this.

Alice leapt at me, taking me by surprise because I'd just been looking for her and hadn't seen her anywhere. She slung an arm around my shoulder and slurred in my ear.

I knew right away that something was off. I pulled away and pushed her arm back.

"Bella," Jasper greeted me, and I could hear the panic in his voice.

Part of me thought, _This isn't real_, Alice couldn't possibly be losing it on top of everything else that night, and for a split second my vision skewed, the whole scene off-kilter before it righted itself again.

It was real.

I reached for Alice's hand. "Let's go," I said.

"No!" she refused, throwing herself into Jasper's arms and clutching at his shoulders. "I don't want to go. I'm having fun."

I lowered my voice, because I wasn't that person, that person who made a scene or embarrassed her friends. I said, "Alice, I don't think you're being yourself." This was the phrasing we'd decided on. The words that I was to use whenever I needed to warn her that she was coming off a trifle unbalanced.

She cackled at me. "_Me?_ _I_'m not being myself? What about you?" She stabbed a finger in my direction. "What about you?"

I didn't know what she meant. "We're probably both tired. Let me take you back to your apartment."

"I'm not tired. You're the one who's acting strangely."

_Acting strangely?_ At any other time, I would have just ignored her words and dragged her out of there, even with her kicking and screaming in protest, but this time I couldn't help but pause. I _was_ strange. Awkward and revolting. I didn't belong there.

Alice hadn't finished though, her voice so loud that she was attracting the attention of others. "You think that I shouldn't waste my time with Jasper. That he hasn't changed. And all the while, you're running around with him." She waved a hand in Cullen's direction, and I registered the look of confusion crossing his features as he took in the show. "What are you doing with him, huh? You want to tell me? You keep asking if I've told Jasper. Have _you_ told Edward? Does he know all your fucked up little secrets? Have you told him about all those plans you made for killing yourself? About Phil? That the chances of you ever sleeping with him are about as high as—"

Swooping in from out of nowhere—or maybe he'd been there the whole time and I just hadn't seen him, my vision narrowed to a screaming tunnel—Seth clapped a hand over Alice's mouth to physically stop any more words from coming out. He kept his hand there even as she struggled against him, and he looked at Jasper. "You know what the problem is, don't you?" he asked.

Jasper's mouth opened and closed twice before he could manage a response. "I thought that it might be that, but I wasn't sure."

"You going to take care of her? Or are you going to drop her like the piece of shit I really hope you aren't?" Seth demanded, his hand still on Alice's mouth, but Alice was no longer struggling, her eyes dazed as if she was about to pass out.

Jasper blinked. "I've got this."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Seth passed Alice to Jasper and stepped away, letting Jasper lead her to the door.

I watched them go. That had always been my job—stepping in to stop Alice from making a spectacle of herself and leading her away. Seth and Jasper had effectively taken my job away from me and now there was nothing for me to do.

"Are you okay?" Seth asked, and I stared at him, not realizing at first that his question had been directed at me.

I couldn't feel anything at all. "Of course," I said. Why wouldn't I be?

I glanced around and saw a few faces watching from the perimeter of the gallery, distracted by the show Alice had just put on. _My God._

"I'm sorry," I apologized. It was Seth's night and we'd ruined it.

"You've got to be kidding me," Seth responded and stepped towards me as though going in for a hug but stopping when he thought better of it. "That wasn't your fault. Alice is such a bitch."

I shook my head. "She isn't a bitch."

"You're not angry at her?" Seth wanted to know, incredulous.

"Why would I be?"

"What she said—she'd no right saying that kind of shit to you."

It didn't matter. She was one of my only friends. Beggars can't be choosers.

_Friends_: People you spend time with to distract you from killing yourself.

"Bella." It was Cullen talking now.

I raised my eyes and when I saw Cullen's face it was like seeing a stranger.

Had I been attracted to him? How? He was too far away for that—not even Apollo chasing Daphne, not even real.

Had I been angry? For what? I was the Lady of Shallot. I would stay in my tower. I never wanted to come down. It didn't make sense to be angry at someone for putting you in a tower when you liked it there. I couldn't be mad at him for not wanting me when I wasn't capable of wanting him. I was too broken for that.

"Bella," he said again, as if I hadn't heard him before. Maybe he was waiting for me to respond but I didn't have anything to say. I didn't understand the expression on his face either. "Let me take you home," he said.

What? "No." I glanced at the corner of the gallery that I still hadn't explored. "I haven't seen all of the pictures yet." Wasn't that why I'd come?

Seth agreed with Cullen. "You can come back another time."

And I remembered how Alice and I had embarrassed Seth and felt even worse for wanting to stay.

"Okay." I looked at Seth again and felt my face fall. "I'm so sorry," I apologized sadly.

"You're not the one who has to apologize," he barked.

"Seth, no." I couldn't believe this. "No, you know that it's not her fault."

"I don't fucking care. And she owes the first apology to you."

I shook my head because he was wrong, but if he wasn't going to listen to me than I didn't know how to fix it.

"Here's your coat, Bella," Cullen said, putting it around my shoulders. I hadn't noticed him going to the coat-check. He must have been fast.

Seth escorted us to the door and I tried to apologize again but he lost his patience and yelled at me to shut up.

I started walking towards my truck home but stopped when I saw that it was blocked in. I pulled out my cell phone and noticed that my hands were still shaking. I wondered if I was coming down with the flu. If I _was_ getting sick, it explained why I had been so emotional earlier.

"I'll drive you," Cullen said from somewhere behind me but I shook my head and dialed Jane. She didn't answer.

I thought of calling Angela, but it was too late at night for that. Maybe a taxi—

"Let me drive you," Cullen said again and I wondered why he cared so much. Probably more of his bullshit chivalry, sham redemption.

I was done. As far as I was concerned, this was the last time that I was going to see Cullen, so I let him drive me home. I stared out of the windows of his Porsche as he drove. He had asked for my address and typed it into his GPS, which was good because I didn't feel like talking.

"Are you okay?" he asked, repeating Seth's question from before.

I didn't know why the two of them thought that I wouldn't be alright.

I said that I was fine and Cullen didn't say anything else.

When we stopped on my street, Cullen used the child-proof locks again so that I had to wait in the car until he came around to my side to open the door. I didn't even bother to complain. What would be the point? Then he walked me to the front step of my townhouse, which was ridiculous since he could have just watched from the car to make sure that I made it inside. That was one of the rules of etiquette: You watch to make sure that the person you are with makes it inside okay.

I thanked him for the ride and he said goodnight and I went inside.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

It was nearly one in the morning. I didn't feel like sleeping. I changed out of my dress, put on a horror movie and began cleaning.

I started with Lon Cheney and moved on to Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff and Vincent Price. By the time the credits rolled on the last movie, it was morning and I'd dusted all of the bookshelves—I had a lot of bookshelves—and in the corners of the ceilings where cobwebs liked to form and over the blades of the ceiling fans where the worst of it liked to accumulate. Cobwebs like in a movie set crypt. I'd taken the curtains down from all of the windows so that I could run them through the wash and had wiped down the glass panes. Burgundy curtains like the lush trappings of a Bavarian castle. I'd polished the furniture and flipped all of the cushions. Thrift store junk—not the ornate stuff that Bela and Vincent's characters had. I had vacuumed and swept.

I was the Igor in my own life, cleaning up after the experiment had gone awry. I wasn't even the fucking star of my own life.

I moved on to Christopher Lee and started on the kitchen. By the time _The Devil Rides Out_ was done, I was hanging the curtains back up in the windows.

I took a shower and climbed into bed, waiting to fall asleep. But as tired as I was, scenes from the previous night still kept replaying themselves whenever I closed my eyes.

Giving up, I pulled out the big guns. _Juon, Juon 2, The Cut._

I fell asleep somewhere between the sound of something thudding up against the wall and a vampire projectile vomiting blood.

I woke up a few hours later and found several voicemails on my cell. Seth had called a couple of times to make sure that I was alright. He was driving up to Vancouver to see his parents but he threatened to send Jane over if I didn't reply. I appreciated the gesture and texted him back: _Am reading Dean Winchester-Castiel slash fanfic and am not to be disturbed for the rest of the weekend_.

Cullen had left a voicemail asking if I was free for lunch. It was already evening, so I texted an apology for missing his call and told him that I was busy grading tests and would talk to him soon.

Alice had also left a voicemail. Jasper had gotten her an emergency appointment and the doctor was probably going to be changing her dosage. I texted her back: _Glad you're ok. Let me know if you need anything. _And I prayed that she didn't take me up on my offer anytime soon.

If Jasper did drop the ball and ended up bailing on Alice after all, then at least I would have the consolation of knowing that I wouldn't have to endure Alice's vision of a triumphant Homecoming return.

_Homecoming! _I sure as fuck wasn't going to that. It'd turn into _Carrie_ if I did.

Not five minutes after I'd texted him, Cullen texted me back: _Need ride to truck?_

I pondered the offer. Why not accept? If nothing else, Cullen's obvious disgust was a surefire cure for the confusion I'd been suffering as of late with regard to my feelings towards him.

You can't delude yourself about someone who finds you grotesque.

But I was done. I texted back that it was already taken care of and got Jane to take me instead. She didn't seem to know anything about the scene at the gallery and didn't press me for conversation. For that I was truly grateful.

I spent the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday watching _Supernatural _and mapping out a _Haunted Tour of New England_ and then another one for Europe (with no overnight stays in haunted hotels) for vacations that I'd probably never take (because I was boring and life was boring and what was I doing with myself anyhow?).

Cullen called several times but I didn't pick up. He didn't leave any messages. Alice and Seth texted a few times.

I wished that they would all leave me alone.

I wondered if I could just stop talking to everyone. Forever.

It was almost eleven on Sunday night and I was staring blearily at the screen as _Supernatural_ season seven—or was it eight?—played. And I finally understood why Sam had left Dean in purgatory. Sam was done. Just like me.

Sam and Dean were fighting over a vampire when Cullen started calling several times in quick succession. He couldn't possibly have expected me to be up this late.

For a split second, I thought of answering, telling him to fuck off, and hanging up. That's what Dean would have done.

But I wasn't Dean. I was Sam. I was nice to a fault, even when I was suicidal.

Not that I was suicidal anymore. And I didn't even need a Dean to tell me it was wrong.

Cullen finally left a voicemail asking me to call him, saying that it was urgent. He sent a text saying the same. But the calls started coming again when I didn't reply.

Really? Were people _that_ worried about me? Were they expecting me to off myself? I didn't require constant monitoring.

The scene at the gallery had been nothing. I'd gone through much worse and had been just fine. Cullen himself had been responsible for much, much worse. So who the fuck was he to care now? Who the fuck was Alice to care if she'd hurt my feelings? And Seth didn't understand—not really.

_Every fifteen minutes_. Cullen's calls were coming every fifteen fucking minutes before I finally broke.

Cursing to myself, I bit the bullet and called him back, but he didn't pick up. _Motherfucker._ I left a voicemail saying that I would talk to him later.

And he seemed to get the _Leave me the fuck alone_ vibe from my message because he stopped calling but I still felt restless. When the clock struck midnight, I found myself unable to sleep despite having finished my map for a walking tour of Lovecraft's Providence.

Angels were falling from heaven on _Supernatural_ when I started to surf the internet for articles on Tanya's murder. I was at a loss for anything else to do. I didn't expect to find anything of use. I was sure that Cullen had already combed through everything that had been published.

Even if I'd decided that I wasn't helping Cullen anymore—he'd figure out that I was backing out sooner or later, and if he didn't, I'd just tell him that I had other priorities—that didn't mean that I couldn't at least look. Fresh eyes and all that.

Even if these eyes were tired and blurry.

I'd done some of my best work while sleep deprived, the rational faculties muted just enough to allow for the bursts of inspiration that make for really original scholarship.

So when I came across the photograph at two o'clock in the morning, I was so tired that I almost went by it without a second glance. The photo was taken to go with an article marking the one year anniversary of the murder. It was a grainy black and white shot of Chelsea Giampetroni, the waitress who'd witnessed Tanya getting into a silver Volvo, standing inside _Bella Italia_. She was balancing a tray of food, the wall behind her covered in drawings that children had made on the backs of their placemats.

I leaned towards the screen of my laptop, squinting at the image. The details were hard to make out.

_Is that—?_

I shook my head at my own foolishness. I was probably just seeing what I wanted to see. There was no way everyone had missed this.

But I opened an email and sent the link to Cullen anyway. He could follow up on it himself.

_There_, I thought_. _I was done Cullen. _The end._

Preparing for school a few hours later, I mentally prepared a list of my priorities.

_Focus on my research. Finish book._

_Travel. _

The list gave me a sense of hope. Reprioritization was just what I needed to get back on track. I might have lost my way—to the point of imagining myself enamored of someone who couldn't possibly return my affections—but that was a momentary lapse. I needn't start questioning the fundamentals of who I might be or my place in the world.

Unfortunately, hope quickly gave way to despair when, upon opening the door of my townhouse, I found a dead goat laying on the step.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Where does a person even get a goat?" I asked Jacob, my voice shaky.

Goats were some serious satanic shit. Which was to say that they were ever so popular with the Satanists in the movies and the books. Not that I actually knew any Satanists who could verify that, but based on what I _did _know, we were talking black Mass and virgin sacrifice and whatnot.

Yeah, fuck that. There wasn't going to be any goddamned _Sacrificial Virgin Bella-Lamb _roast.

And even if this had nothing to do with Satanism, it still meant that someone had gone to all the trouble of _getting a fucking goat_.

What the fuck?

I felt nauseous. I'd eaten no more than a piece of toast for breakfast, and even that was threatening to make a reappearance.

It wasn't just the goat. After the weekend that I'd had, I had to admit that my nerves were strained, to say the least.

I was doing my best to regain some sense of calm, but my hands were trembling, and Jacob's attitude was by no means conducive to my efforts to maintain my composure.

I was sitting next to Jacob's desk in the precinct. I'd had to take a cab to meet him because my truck wouldn't start. I didn't know a thing about automotive maintenance, but my truck had been running just fine Saturday night.

I couldn't help but suspect that there was a connection between the truck's sudden failure to start and the dead animal showing up on my doorstep, but I didn't trust myself not to be a bit paranoid at this point.

_Someone_ _is putting dead animals on your doorstep!_ I thought. Perhaps I had a right to be paranoid.

If whoever was leaving the animals _had_ done something to my truck, then surely that was serious enough for the police to take real action.

Yet Jacob seemed disinterested. Almost angry.

"How was it killed?" Jacob asked.

I stared at him. "How would I know? It was dead. I don't know how it was killed."

"Did it have any wounds?"

I pressed a hand to my forehead. "There were stains on the body. It might have been blood. I didn't want to look."

"How much blood?"

Was he serious? "Oh my God, I don't know."

"Why didn't you take a picture with your phone?"

I didn't like the way that Jacob was talking to me, as if I had done something wrong. "I didn't think of it." I probably should have called him when I found the body. Instead, I had called a taxi, then stood on the curb waiting for it to come, the whole time staring at thing lying on my doorstep as if I was afraid that it would come to life and come after me. I was lucky that Jacob was even at the precinct when I got there. "Why are you talking to me like this?"

Jacob stared at me for a minute. "I'm going to have to hand this over, you know. I don't handle cases like this. I can't cover for you."

"Cover for me?"

"Why didn't you tell me that one of your students was missing?"

"What?"

"Bree Tanner. Why didn't you tell me about her? And why didn't you tell me that you'd been spending time with Edward Cullen?"

I was about to lose my shit. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Bree Tanner's body was found in a warehouse on Friday. All of the blood was drained from her body."

**AN: **

_**Juon 1**_** and **_**2**_** (the Japanese originals of **_**The Grudge**_**) and Park Chan Wook's **_**The Cut**_** are my favorite horror movies of all time. They fuck with your head until you don't know what's going on. **

**If horror isn't your thing, I HIGHLY recommend Park Chan Wook's **_**I'm a Cyborg but It's Okay**_**. It's a quirky pseudo-romantic comedy set in the present—despite the title, it's not sci fi or in the least bit scary (though I must include a tissue warning). **

**Friendly reminder: DO NOT watch with dubbing. Subtitles are our friend. It's part of the whole fucking with your head process. You're not supposed to understand.**

**Re: **_**The Cut – **_**The sets are so pretty that you will want to lick the screen. I prefer the shorter version, in the first **_**Three Extremes**_** combo pack – Warning on the other two flicks on this disc though: **_**Dumplings**_** is hard on the stomach (my Bella had to keep closing her eyes in a bid to keep her lunch down) and both the longer version of **_**Dumplings**_** and **_**Box **_**involve topics related to sexual abuse.**

**Rec: Desiderata by kimpy **Desiderata is Latin for "desired things or something that is needed, wanted." Both Edward and Bella want happiness, but will their pig-headed stubbornness and biases get in the way of finding true love? Based upon Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice." Rated: Fiction M - English - Humor/Romance - Bella, Edward - Chapters: 29 - Words: 161,951 - Reviews: 870 - Favs: 898 - Follows: 379 - Updated: Nov 25, 2009 - Published: Jun 24, 2009 - Status: Complete - id: 5163913


	21. Chapter 21

**WARNING: Another "fake" chapter. Hate these? That's okay. I'll talk you through it – Pick any link on the page and click the mouse. Your finger won't fall off. *kisses***

**Meyers still owns all.**

**FANFIC TIMES**

_All the news that the others won't print_

**Letter to the Editor**

**On the Misuse of Fanfiction**

By Jorge Luis Borges

I understand that fanfiction is founded on principles of challenging the norm. Its very existence is based on the notion that absolutely anyone can revise a story that's been published. But just because we seem to violate copyright laws doesn't mean that we can do whatever we want. Fanfiction writers have been taking far too many liberties lately! First they were adding song lyrics and poetry too their stories. Then it was providing links to Bella's dresses! Now "fake" chapters are being posted at the _same_ time as regular chapters! What's next? Non-canon couples, non-HEAs, AHs, Bellas who are vamps and Edwards who are human, Bellas who are black, Bellas who aren't virgins, Edwards who are—gasp—S&amp;M sex dungeon gods, Bellas who have children, Edwards who have children, Bellas and Edwards who are—ugh!—old people…

Unacceptable! Doesn't author-self-insert (I'm not afraid to name names) understand that her actions are disrupting the "illusion" that the reader is actually IN the story? Doesn't she realize that after clicking the link or button to open an update, the sight of a "fake" chapter before the reader's eyes is so horrifying as to utterly shatter the fiction of fanfiction?

There are RULES to fanfiction, damn it. And I _won't_ stop reading either. These fanfiction authors who bend the rules will just have to change what they're doing. Because I say so.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Survey of Fanfiction Reviewers Reveals that Everyone Is Different**

By Carl Jung

Efforts to pin down a "standard" reader of fanfiction have proven disastrous. Despite lack of consensus about how characters should behave, many insist that they alone are right about…

Story continued on A6

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**Isabella Swan's Rules of Etiquette **

By Isabella Swan

Temper tantrums are for weak willed children.

No one has a right to know what you are thinking.

Your privacy and your pride can never be taken from you. They can only be given away.

Never let anyone think he or she has any power to affect you one way or another. You must be above the slings and arrows of common folk.

Only lie to others, never yourself.

Assume the worst in every situation. That way, you can never be disappointed.

You can only trust yourself.

Life is easier if no one knows about the above rules.

Rules continued on B2

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Progress Being Made in Solving the Murder of Local Girl **

By Ambrose Bierce

_Fanfic Times_ is pleased to announce that the recent outpouring of support in the effort to find Tanya Denali's murderer has inspired the police to reopen the cold case. Here is what the public has had to say about the list of suspects (new theories in bold):

**Edward**

Alibi – Bella saw him in the woods at the time of the murder…unless he has a double!

Motive – Tanya had just cheated on him

\- Yay: JessaCloud "Sometimes I think maybe Bella just *thought* she saw Edward in the meadow, but he wasn't really there?" 4Dec, eustaciavye1 "Edward did it. Bella is totes the next victim." 5Dec, JinxedBookaholic243 "Does he have a secret crazy twin? I'm borrowing from pretty little liars, yes." 6Dec**, Immerlesen's husband "I'm starting to wonder if **

**there is some twist that makes it possible for Edward or Bella to be the culprit." 21Jan, snowdrop999 "If Edward was a vampire (we believe it in Meyer, after all), he could easily have run all the way there and back in the time. No alibi." 23Jan, ThiglDub "It was Edward. Bella is mistaken about either who she saw, or when she saw him. There is no way he made a 38 mile hike, with at least an hour in a meadow, in less than 8 hours. Even if he was running, which he says he wasn't, the timeline doesn't work for that distance." 23Jan**

**Jasper**, Edward's friend

Alibi – was supposedly in Texas at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: Capricorn75 "Jasper did it! Okay, no reason for saying that, I'm just naming my suspect early on. Calling shotgun, if you will." Nov19, WiltshireGlo "I still think Jasper knows more even if he wasn't the killer. There had to have been more than one person involved." 4Dec, Capricorn75 "My top 3 suspects are- in no particular order- Jasper, Alice, and Aro (aka BOB from Twin Peaks)." 6Dec,** Creampuf99 "I wonder more and more if the killer is someone obvious, like Jasper or Alice?" 18Dec, Moflo19 "I'm actually leaning toward Jasper and Alice. Both seem...sketchy in my opinion. Seems a little convenient that they were both out of town at the time." 24Dec, TiramiSue84 "Jasper (?) his reaction to learning of Ed's and Bella's plan seems a bit suspicious, but maybe it's not something he did, but something he didn't do!?" 26Dec, Lilly9909 "At the beginning of this chapter [chapter 15 per the heading, chapter 18 per the fanfiction dropdown] I started wondering if maybe Alice is the murderer? Having read the outtake from her it could possibly make sense especially the way she reacted to the case in the kitchen with Bella. So it's now her and Jasper who are on my suspect list." 15Jan, Erroneous78 "Jasper - he's up there too. There's just something about him." 17Jan**

**Alice**

Alibi – was supposedly in Mississippi at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Alice's high school years such a torment

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest on 14Nov, LRK680 "I believe this whole thing is about Edward. I think some psycho wanted to be him, his house was empty and his car was in the driveway, I'll bet it actually WAS his car. Someone knew how to get into his house and get his key, then they pretended to BE Edward with the wig (did the killer collect Edward's real hair from haircuts or was it synthetic?). Tanya was just serendipitous, angered by her unfaithfulness and wanting to punish her (while Edward). It probably was a long slow train ride to crazy for this killer. Eric could very well be that crazy, the knife wound could have come from Tanya fighting back, also it worries me that Alice would have the skills to pull this off (although she's kinda tiny, so I'm thinking not her because of that). Tanya probably thought it really was Edward when she was getting in the car, especially since the large sunglasses covered most of the psycho's face." 4Dec, lee21761 "Not sure if she could be the killer but was she really in Mississippi or was there another episode..." 4Dec, Capricorn75 "My top 3 suspects are- in no particular order- Jasper, Alice, and Aro (aka BOB from Twin Peaks)." 6Dec, **frostedglaze "So, what are the odds that Mary Alice and Bella are the killers? I wouldn't mind and that would be just awesome. I can see Bella having a mild case of schizophrenia. That would explain the dead animals she would leave on her doorstep, her vegetarianism, ( bacon is the most perfect food in the world), and why her father, maybe never really solved the case." 12Dec, Creampuf99 "I wonder more and more if the killer is someone obvious, like Jasper or Alice?" 18Dec, gurlnxdore "my guess is Alice...it's always the quiet ones!" 23Dec, Moflo19 "I'm actually leaning toward Jasper and Alice. Both seem...sketchy in my opinion. Seems a little convenient that they were both out of town at the time." 24Dec, Lilly9909 "At the beginning of this chapter [chapter 15 per the heading, chapter 18 per the fanfiction dropdown] I started wondering if maybe Alice is the murderer? Having read the outtake from her it could possibly make sense especially the way she reacted to the case in the kitchen with Bella. So it's now her and Jasper who are on my suspect list." 15Jan**

**Bella**

Alibi – Saw Edward in the woods at the time of the murder (…but no one saw her, did they?)

Motive – 1. Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Bella's high school years such a torment. 2. Plot to destroy Edward's traitorous girlfriend and swoop in to save Edward from prosecution, all in a desperate gamble to make Edward like her (really? desperate much!)

\- Yay: wonderfullybedazzled "She seems to work hard to keep up her professional persona, reminding herself of acceptable social discourse." 4Dec, SandPrincess13 "Bella turns into a shapeshifter without her own knowledge and is out to annihilate the vampires by accusing them of serial killing. ._. She is the prime suspect, and it is highly possible that Edward is a vampire. So, the plan to destroy Edward makes sense. And then she might have contacted random serial killer who likes to pretend that he is a vampire and pumps the blood out of the victims body after which said serial killer drinks the blood." 4Dec, punkrose 86 "Something keeps nagging at me making me think Bells is the murderer" 5Dec, Bevey99 "Honestly I suspected Bella. Motive, and opportunity. And, by saying he didn't do it. It through any slight suspicion off of her." 7Dec, **frostedglaze "So, what are the odds that Mary Alice and Bella are the killers? I wouldn't mind and that would be just awesome. I can see Bella having a mild case of schizophrenia. That would explain the dead animals she would leave on her doorstep, her vegetarianism, ( bacon is the most perfect food in the world), and why her father, maybe never really solved the case." 12Dec, Immerlesen's husband "I'm starting to wonder if **

**there is some twist that makes it possible for Edward or Bella to be the culprit." 21Jan**

**Mike** **Newton**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

\- Yay: EdwardsFirstKiss "I think either James or Mike" 4Dec, shaz308 "I think Mike nay have more to do with things too though I have a feeling it was a join effort." 4Dec, **EdwardsFirstKiss "Thinking it could have been Newton now..." 12Dec, Shamatt0403 "To be honest my money might actually be on Newton now. He definitely knew his way around a knife." 12Dec, ChoFuSa "My theory on who done it is whoever is sending Bella weird gifts, which turned ugly right after she spent time with Edward at the bar. So he (most likely) has a warped love for Bella. He saw a way to kill one of the people who tortured her and frame another. And i agree, the photo of the party at LaPush is just too convenient. Now who is it,hmmm? Maybe Mike, he's pretty creepy and likes knives..." 13Dec, dreamiedreamer "James is my top suspect and Mike is now my second choice." 14Dec**

**Jessica**, Tanya's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

**Lauren**, Tanya's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive - ?

\- Yay: **JinxedBookaholic243 "Tanya was the murderer. Except she was disowned by her mother at the age of three for not having The hair. Hence, Lauren became Tanya and Tanya became Lauren and the Tanya killed the Lauren who was pretending to be explanation that fits with Lauren going to Dallas. Who goes to Dallas? Pfft." 12Dec**

**Eric**

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – Tanya and Edward led the brat pack who made Eric's high school years such a torment.

\- Yay: LRK860 "Or, I'm leaning towards an adult for this, of all the teenagers involved, Eric is the only one who I think would snap (if Alice was really in Mississippi)." 4Dec, LRK680 "I believe this whole thing is about Edward. I think some psycho wanted to be him, his house was empty and his car was in the driveway, I'll bet it actually WAS his car. Someone knew how to get into his house and get his key, then they pretended to BE Edward with the wig (did the killer collect Edward's real hair from haircuts or was it synthetic?). Tanya was just serendipitous, angered by her unfaithfulness and wanting to punish her (while Edward). It probably was a long slow train ride to crazy for this killer. Eric could very well be that crazy, the knife wound could have come from Tanya fighting back, also it worries me that Alice would have the skills to pull this off (although she's kinda tiny, so I'm thinking not her because of that). Tanya probably thought it really was Edward when she was getting in the car, especially since the large sunglasses covered most of the psycho's face." 4Dec, chosmer "I want to say Eric even tho 90% of me believes he's innocent. My theory is he got that wound from Tanya when she put up a fight when he kidnapped her. But we all know it's James." 4Dec

**James**, Edward and Jasper's friend

Alibi – Was on First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – Does he need one? Everyone hates James. Except, of course, the people who flip the script and make him the hero of their ffn.

Votes:

\- Yay: Angelari7 "James maybe?" 31Oct, cejsmom "my money is on James" 19Nov, 2brown-eyes "possible foreshadowing…James perhaps?" 18Nov, GorGirl "I bet it was James" 25Nov "I'm still going with James. I bet he had sex with Tanya, too, and wanted her to be his. She was too much of a f*** to commit to anyone, so he killed her and drank her blood because he thinks he's a vampire." 4Dec, jansails "James, Felix, or Demetri, or their wives/girlfriends did the deed?" 4Dec, wonderfullybedazzled "Aro or James could be the killer." 4Dec, chosmer "…we all know it's James." 4Dec, 2402a "I truly believe that it is James" 4Dec, EdwardsFirstKiss "I think either James or Mike" 4Dec, Susie Mook "I had thought James" 5Dec, JulieToo "For me, it's a tie between James and Aro as to who is the killer of Tanya. I'm thinking Twin Peaks weirdness mixed in with Bella's ghosts and living-in-the-books lifestyle. Yum!" 6Dec, **esmegrace "Got to say that James is looking more and more suspicious." 11Dec, WiltshireGlo "James moves up my suspect list. Along with his dodgy girlfriend. But Jasper still has to prove his innocence." 11Dec, MssL "I'm pretty convinced it was James. We know too little about him and what he'd been up to." 13Dec, dreamiedreamer "James is my top suspect and Mike is now my second choice." 14Dec, im LOVING it "Part of me jumps to the usual suspects - Aro, James, etc... Aro because it's clear there are a lot of family issues; James because he is ALWAYS the bad guy" 17Dec, RobsessedPattinson "At this point idk who killed her, but let's go with James." 18Dec, LRK860 "James and Maria could be the killers or they could just be massive assholes." 18Dec, majose "vote for James now" 18Dec, TiramiSue84 "James because he's the go-to villain, was part of the bully-brat-pack, and I'm sure he' still a bastard." 26Dec**

**Irina**, Tanya's sister

Alibi – She was pretty young, and with Kate at another shop

Motive – Crazy

\- Yay: jansails "Or maybe it was Irina- she is off her rocker, right?" 4Dec, **Erroneous78 "Kate &amp; Irina are high-ish on my list but then it could just be that they've just had a screwed up life." 17Jan**

**Victoria**, is she in this story?

Alibi – ?

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: Fakin' it "Victoria. She has red hair, could've had it tucked into her shirt to make it look short. She did it because James slept with Tanya, and she's a jealous, crazy lady. Or James and Victoria working together, just because they are psycho. Maybe they were into blood play and snuff, and it was a game to them. I'm sure Tanya would've agreed to a threesome considering her penchant for sex, and wouldn't have known how deadly the consequences could be. If Tanya was raped while unconscious, killer must've used a condom, or else the police would've found semen and done DNA testing on it…. I still think Victoria is a good possibility. Maybe she knew someone who had a Volvo like Edward's and she dressed like Edward and tried to look like Edward to fool Tanya, not to set it up with eyewitnesses. She just wanted *Tanya* to think she was getting into Edward's car long enough to get her away without a struggle. That's why there wasn't more of an effort at setting up Edward for the murder with eyewitnesses. The effort was all for Tanya's benefit, so she wouldn't realize the danger until it was too late. And then, after she murdered Tanya, she called James and told him what she'd done with the girl he'd cheated on her with, and he was impressed, being a psycho. He then called in the murder after Victoria was away from the cabin. It may have even been a coincidence that Edward got blamed, or James may have known that Edward wasn't at the party and knowing how Victoria lured Tanya away by pretending to be Edward, he may have then hoped Edward would get the blame, so Victoria would be safe.`" 4Dec, **SandPrincess13 "James has or had a motive, then. But who would have hair like Edward? It's not like Victoria can act like boy... which could be possible if she was sitting in the car and wearing sunglasses. ._. What am I even talking about?" 11Dec, KatHat "OK, I just going to guess someone named Victoria who has natural freakin' red hair and doesn't need a wig. Tanya could go both ways. Eyewitness saw a person with red hair, assumed it was a guy, she could have had her hair in a ponytail or bun or a hat. Girls wear big sunglasses, not guys. If she was from out of town, she could have had a silver Volvo and no one knew." 11Dec, siren of titan "victoria! shes the baby and holds a grudge because she thought they left her with charles and he messed her up..." 18Dec, KTNCullen "Oh! Oh! Oh! Victoria is Edward's cousin and will have red hair and was the one impersonating Edward! Maybe *shrugs*" 20Dec**

**Felix Manning**, had sex with Tanya, mechanic at the place where Tanya's father took his cars

Alibi – ?

Motive – ?

\- Yay: jansails "James, Felix, or Demetri, or their wives/girlfriends did the deed?" 4Dec

**Demitri Giampetroni**, had sex with Tanya, brother of waitress who is the last person to see Tanya alive

Alibi – ?

Motive – ?

\- Yay: jansails "James, Felix, or Demetri, or their wives/girlfriends did the deed?" 4Dec, **socceredout "How do we know that Demetrius's sister wasn't lying about the volvo and red haired person. Didn't the police investigate and couldn't find another volvo in the area other than Edwards? Maybe there was no car or red head. What if Demetrius was the *vampire* visiting Tanya and his sister was covering for him? The whole draining of blood is ritualistic, maybe these people are into vampires and devil worship." 11Dec**

**Esme**, Edward's mother

Alibi – Was in Seattle at the time of the murder with her husband (of course, you will recall that spouses can't be compelled to testify…)

Motive – Was angry that Carlisle was sleeping with Tanya (if he was) and over Tanya's treatment of Edward

Votes:

\- Yay: **Capricorn75 "****As a matter of fact when Bella met Esme she even commented on how she had the same fiery red hair as Edward AND HOLY HELL ESME KILLED TANYA! She had access to Edward's car. She had red hair that the waitress saw (maybe she wore her hair short back then? Who knows!). She's someone that Tanya would have been comfortable getting in a car with (sorry, ending sentence with a preposition). Maybe she found out Carlisle was also screwing Tanya. Maybe she found out that Tanya had cheated on Edward, and it reminded her of Charles and Elizabeth and she killed her out of revenge. Maybe Carlisle was in on it and placed the cuts, or maybe Esme knew enough about that aspect of it simply because she was married to a doctor and picked up that completely normal tidbit of information along the way." 22Dec, socceredout "That was some story that Esme told. One thing that bothers me and Bella makes a reference to it. Who ever killed Tanya had to know how to cut her. They had to have some medical background? Esme has red hair too. Could she and Carlisle have killed Tanya for some unknown reason? Was she somehow connected to Charles?" 22Dec, NewTwilightFan "My theory on the murder is that Esme and Carlisle offed Tanya - motives are a jumble in my head. They weren't trying to frame Edward, Esme was pretending to be Edward in order to trick Tanya. They expected Edward to be at the party and orchestrated photos to give him a solid alibi. Their plan hit a snag when the waitress saw Edward's car pick up Tanya. The second problem was that Edward went off wandering in the woods and had no alibi. Fortunately for all involved, Bella stepped up and saved him. It would have been awfully traumatic for his parents to confess to murder, but less so than going to prison. Maybe. My theory doesn't take ALL the evidence and bizarre behavior of different characters into account, but it's where my brain has stalled for now." 23Dec, tetecruz (you said that were having second thoughts but I think this is a great theory) "It was a Esme-Carlisle combo. Why? He probably was having an affair with Tanya too. Mamma Cullen found out and got very, very angry. To the point of framing her own son, just as long as the bitch was killed. So she picked Tanya up, disguised as Edward (it wouldn't be difficult for they probably have similiar hair color and she has direct access to his car), and then went down to the cabin, where there was Carlisle (aka the pedophile) to finish the very technical deed. One more thing: Jasper might be their accomplice, and he's the one who's sending the letters to Bella." 24Dec **

**Carlisle**, Edward's father

Alibi – Was in Seattle at the time of the murder with his wife (of course, you will recall that spouses can't be compelled to testify…)

Motive – Was he one of the men that Tanya was having an affair with?

Votes:

\- Yay: LRK860 "You have me wondering about Carlisle. Didn't Edward say his parents wanted him to date Tanya, why? Small town gossip surely would have zoomed in on her at some point. Or a good visit to the good doctor because of an STD scare." 20Nov, WiltshireGlo "I'm beginning to wonder about Carlisle" 4Dec, JessaCloud "Could he have been using Edward's car and killed Tanya?" 4Dec , SandPrincess13 "It could be Carlisle, but that doesn't explain where Esme was at the moment. I believe that Carlisle would have known the points that could be used to drain someone, but what would be do it with? Syringe?" 4Dec, roxiegirl "Hmmm, the precision of the knife slices makes me think some medical training. ...maybe Carlisle got her pregnant and had to kill her." 4Dec, **socceredout "That was some story that Esme told. One thing that bothers me and Bella makes a reference to it. Who ever killed Tanya had to know how to cut her. They had to have some medical background? Esme has red hair too. Could she and Carlisle have killed Tanya for some unknown reason? Was she somehow connected to Charles?" 22Dec, NewTwilightFan "My theory on the murder is that Esme and Carlisle offed Tanya - motives are a jumble in my head. They weren't trying to frame Edward, Esme was pretending to be Edward in order to trick Tanya. They expected Edward to be at the party and orchestrated photos to give him a solid alibi. Their plan hit a snag when the waitress saw Edward's car pick up Tanya. The second problem was that Edward went off wandering in the woods and had no alibi. Fortunately for all involved, Bella stepped up and saved him. It would have been awfully traumatic for his parents to confess to murder, but less so than going to prison. Maybe. My theory doesn't take ALL the evidence and bizarre behavior of different characters into account, but it's where my brain has stalled for now." 23Dec, tetecruz (you said that you were having second thoughts but I think this is a great theory) "It was a Esme-Carlisle combo. Why? He probably was having an affair with Tanya too. Mamma Cullen found out and got very, very angry. To the point of framing her own son, just as long as the bitch was killed. So she picked Tanya up, disguised as Edward (it wouldn't be difficult for they probably have similiar hair color and she has direct access to his car), and then went down to the cabin, where there was Carlisle (aka the pedophile) to finish the very technical deed. One more thing: Jasper might be their accomplice, and he's the one who's sending the letters to Bella." 24Dec**

**Mike Newton's father**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Grocery store manager**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Gas station attendant**, had sex with Tanya

Alibi – ?

Motive – Didn't want anyone to know that he was having sex with Tanya

**Aro Denali**

Alibi – ?

Motive – Psycho (poor Tanya)

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "Her sisters knew an awful lot about her sexual exploits, what about Daddy? How long were the girls sitting in the coffee shop, who came to get them" 20Nov, CindyWindy1 "Mr. Denali makes a fine suspect. Acting unhinged and irrationally angry now, and in the past he threatened to horrifically murder high school aged Bella." 27Nov, EnchantedbyTwilight "I am all in for Aro being the killer - Daddy issues abound in this story - molestation? And Aro's reaction to Bella visiting the hospital. With Irina seeing vampires and the manner in which Tanya was killed, there is something ritualistic about it. I also see cult involvement of sorts, so maybe there are several involved as well." 4Dec, sharkjumper "I'm now totally obsessed with Renee's obsession for pedophiles... I feel there is something with that tidbit of info. Was Renee molested as a child? Maybe by Aro? Maybe Aro had his own kids in a p*** ring? Tanya was too old to be the victim of a p*** ring...but there was something ritualistic about her death..." 4Dec, majose "Aro definitely gives the psycho vibe." 4Dec, wonderfullybedazzled "Aro or James could be the killer." 4Dec, Guest "It was Colonel Mustard, in the parlor with a knife! Lol Still no clue, Renee is a freak, could she know of a group in Forks that does bizarre or satanic rituals? She grew up there then left with Bella. Right? Maybe Aro is part of this group, and Tanya was picked as a sacrifice (kind of like The Lottery). He just can't deal with anything anymore, just like his other daughters. The only thing throwing me off is the apparent randomness of the volvo and red-headed drivers abduction of her. Was it random? Or was the person following her, watching and waiting for an opening to swoop in and whisk her off to her untimely death? This person must have known that almost all the teenagers in town were on the beach. Hmmm..." 4Dec, 2old4fanfic "Clearly Aro has been both abuser and abused. His daughters' history of promiscuity and mental issues all point to sexual abuse by a close associate. The abuse by someone who is supposed to keep you safe causes a mental schism. Aro loves and hates his daughters for 'allowing' him to abuse them and especially Tanya, for having sex with anyone who isn't him. Multiple stab wounds, overkill, indicate a close relationship with the killer (which may only be in the killer's mind). Aro wants to get back at Edward because Tanya may actually have liked Edward, which would enrage her there. Also, I suspect he threatened his other daughter, Kate, to give false testimony" 4Dec, Capricorn75 "My top 3 suspects are- in no particular order- Jasper, Alice, and Aro (aka BOB from Twin Peaks)." 6Dec, JulieToo "For me, it's a tie between James and Aro as to who is the killer of Tanya. I'm thinking Twin Peaks weirdness mixed in with Bella's ghosts and living-in-the-books lifestyle. Yum!" 6Dec, nitammi "I am putting her mother on associative alert, along with Aro (pedo?) With Irina having some traumatic involvement." 6 Dec, **im LOVING it "Part of me jumps to the usual suspects - Aro, James, ****etc... Aro because it's clear there are a lot of family issues; James because he is ALWAYS the bad guy" 17Dec**

**Renee**, Bella's mother

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: sharkjumper "Hmmmmmmm... Why is your suspects list missing Renee and Phil?"4Dec, majose "It could very well be Edward! Or Renee or a friend of her (Phill?)." 4Dec, Guest "So i'm going for Renee, two things stuck out for me. Firstly the weird things Renee would say to her when she was a kid and that "she said that she could protect me" and the last time they saw each other was after fight right after Tanya's murder. Plus right at the end when Bella says "then it struck me, more forcibly than ever before, that Tanya's killer could very well have family in Forks". Renee wanted to protect Bella from her monsters, which would be Tanya and Edward, kill one and set up the other." 5Dec, KTNCullen "Hmmmmm...could Bella's creepy mom have had something to do with it? I feel like that was foreshadowing about her knowing the killer's family." 6Dec, nitammi "I am putting her mother on associative alert, along with Aro (pedo?) With Irina having some traumatic involvement." 6 Dec

**Phil**, Bella's stepfather

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

Votes:

\- Yay: sharkjumper "What is up with Phil? Where is he now? Does he have red hair?" 4Dec, majose "It could very well be Edward! Or Renee or a friend of her (Phill?)." 4Dec

**Unknown serial killer**

Alibi - ?

Motive – Psycho serial killer who just happened to have short red hair and drive a car that looked like Edward's

\- Yay: sharkjumper "I think we have to start dissecting the anonymous notes that Bella has been getting as of late, but this one in particular: "The strangeness of the figure, and its being so close akin to his own nature, attracted him." My theory is that the killer offed Tanya (and others) as sacrifice for Bella. I have 1 dollar running on a mysterious serial killer. I can't pick a suspect from the current lineup, but I'm very intrigued by Eric's wound and Alice's nuthouse stint." 4Dec

**Unknown female**

Alibi – ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: Rebadams7 "I can't be specific yet but I believe there will be a female in this female could give blows to the head with a heavy object to inflict the damage without crushing the skull and well opening the veins might be a simple way to murder thinking she's going to make it look like a suicide and no one will notice the blows to the head" 4Dec

**Someone from La Push**, it wouldn't be fair to leave them out

Alibi – Just about everyone was at First Beach at the time of the murder

Motive – 1. Maybe Tanya found that pirate gold that's supposed to be buried in La Push (yes, I was serious about this. If _Oak Island_ can have its own show, then I can have pirate gold at La Push). 2. Needed to hide fact that they'd had sex with Tanya.

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "What about the boys on the reservation? Who did she sleep with from there?" 20Nov, LRK860 "You were serious about the pirate's gold? That opens up another can of worms. Although, that would be big news, and the LaPush residents would want it for themselves. So maybe the tribe killed her ritualistically to throw everyone off?" 4Dec

**Police**, maybe just some of them or all of them (ugh?)

Alibi – ?

Motive – They were having sex with Tanya

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "WHY didn't the police investigate further, did Tanya sleep with some of them?" 20Nov, **eustaciavye1 "Add the deputy Tanya boinked to my list of suspects." 23Dec**

**The guy who shot the sheriff but not the deputy**

**Alibi – He may have been shooting the sheriff at the time of Tanya's murder…**

**Motive – Oh, I know, I know, if he'd already shot the sheriff then maybe Tanya was a witness and he was taking her out to cover his tracks!**

**Votes:**

**\- Yay:** **TiramiSue84 "The guy who shot the sheriff but not the deputy" 26Dec**

**Wives and girlfriends of everyone who Tanya had sex with**

Alibi – ?

Motive – They were having sex with her

Votes:

\- Yay: Guest "I've got no clue where to begin to whittle down possible suspects who wanted Tanya dead. Lots of wives and girlfriends, for sure." 20Nov (yes this is the same guest who cast the other votes noted for this day – he/she was ON FIRE!), **2old4fanfic "Still liking Aro for the murder, but a group of teens enacting a ritual in a cabin sounds like a good time. Or, it could be, "Deranged Housewives of Clallam COunty" getting back at the little husband thief." 11Dec**

**Parent of kid who's snapped (like maybe Eric's parents)**

Alibi - ?

Motive – Kid's snapped

Votes:

\- Yay: LRK860 "Or, I'm leaning towards an adult for this, of all the teenagers involved, Eric is the only one who I think would snap (if Alice was really in Mississippi). Or, maybe the parent of a tortured child (like the Chief), finally had enough and wanted revenge for the hurt and abuse? And we still don't know who owns the cabin in the woods and who in the area knew about it." 4Dec

**Edward's long lost cousin**

**Alibi - ?**

**Motive - ?**

**\- Yay: ****EdwardsFirstKiss **"**Could the murderer be Edward's long lost cousin?" 18Dec, Fakin'It "Sounds like Maria is Edward's cousin &amp; the culprit with matching hair... I'd say someone made a wig out of Esme's hair clippings, but then that would mean Edward's hair at the scene was deliberately planted." 18Dec, eesti "I'm wondering whether the mysterious missing cousin was a cross-dressing redhead posing as Edward, in collusion with the nefarious moustache-twirling ex-fiancé Charles." 18Dec, sugari6 "Edward's cousin could be involved especially if she resembled Edward. Perhaps she's connected to Irina in some way." 18Dec**, **LRK860 "So Charles Masen and Esme's sister Elizabeth had a daughter, who probably has the same color hair as Edward and Esme. Family trait, seems this girl (Victoria?) could very well be the killer." 18Dec, majose '…Edward's cousin.' 18Dec, dreamiedreamer "May be it's not Charles but Elizabeth's daughter? Who knows what stories he had been feeding her when she grew up. The girl who was hanging out with James on First Beach, Leah mentioned her, fitted the bill. Someone was definitely after Bella and it happened before Edward turned up." 20Dec, TiramiSue84 "Esme's lost niece goes by the name Maria or is it Victoria?!) She never had a good life thanks to her vioent and fucked up father... Hence her growing up to be pretty fucked up herself. Due to unknown reasons, she blames her aunt and her family for her misery. She somehow makes it to Forks with a scheme to maybe only confront the Cullens, but somehow ends up with James What's-his-name. James, himself, is a bastard-jerk and fucked up himself, but nowhere as fucked up as Maria...  
There must have some kind of fight or bickering within the butt-buddy-brat-pack (or sheer coincidence) that led to James hanging out alone more and more, another reason why he and Maria found each other and got along. It was kinda mentioned that James was pissed that he couldn't land one of the girls in their group... Maybe he DID land one of them but only in secret?! Maybe James was one of Tanya's many many fuck buddies, but he wanted more. Of course, Tanya wouldn't have that since she wanted to keep up her oen scheme to be able to keep on hanging onto Edward - which of course pissed Jamie up even more. Now, there were two sources saying that Maria influenced and possibly manipulated Jamie to be an even bigger asshole than he already way... Maybe she also made him more twisted. Let's say that James banged Tanya -who obviously enjoyed sex - on the side, introduced her to the kinkier stuff like blood play and other stuff. Possibly, he/they got some pointers from Mike and his unhealthy love for knives... And that Irene witnessed these games by sneaking around (which could be part of her mental state anowadays/ the things she has seen and knows about) Only, maybe that wasn't enough for James and Maria...could be that Maria snuck in on their sessions without Tanya's consent, or they filmed her or took things further against her will. Chelsea said that whoever it was that picked up Tanya in PA, she was pissed at him/her/them for "the shit they did to her". Whether it was for the thrill or they feared Tanya would snitch them out, they decide to kill (or at least torture) her. If it really was more than one/them, it could be that James went to the beach party for the sake of an alibi, while Maria took care of Tanya. With any luck, her hair is/was the same color Edward and Esme's...I'm just not sure about the car part. If they did take Edward's car, how did they know all Cullen's would be gone the exact time they needed them to?! The evidence found in his car could have landed by way , of course, meaning that they didn't used Edward's car. Only then, where did the car come from?! I'm still at a loss of whom would leave the surprises at bella's doorstep and why. If he/she/they/it and the on that send her the letters are not, in fact, the same person, things get even more fucked up. I mean, whoever it is, must be very very close to Bella to know of Edward approaching her and their plan to solve the murder, as well as her constant whereabouts. I mean, look at the timing! It couldn't be Jamie himself if he really is still in jail, but maybe Maria or another (involuntary) accomplice. So far, it's been more of a (gross) scare than an actual attack... But then there's the prologue. GAH!" 28Dec, dawnmarie dreaming "i think edward was set up by charles and the previously unknown long lost cousin. the red hair comes from esme's side, yes? said cousin is probably scarred from a horrible life living with charles and resents edward for having the childhood that should have been hers. ;-)" 1Jan, musicdaydreams "That's quite interesting about Charles and Esme's niece. I wonder if there could be some resentment of Edward on the part of the niece? Who knows what Charles has told her about Esme and the Cullens. Looks like another suspect to add to the list." 4Jan, charlucas "I'm guessing people have also registered suspicion of the ex-fiance and cousin as culprits?" 12Jan**

**Edward's long lost sister**

**Alibi - ?**

**Motive - ?**

**\- Yay: niknas "the murderer is E's long lost sister. And she will look like him." 23Dec **

**Charlie**, Bella's father

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: eesti "I hate him." 4Dec, **JinxedBookaholic243 "Charles was her first husband? CHARLES? It's Bella's father, out to get revenge on people teasing his daughter, and his first wife." 18Dec, Immerlesen's husband "My top suspect is now Charlie Swan - he'd know how to frame it and avoid proper scrutiny." 21Jan**

**Jacob**, police officer in Seattle

Alibi - ?

Motive - ?

\- Yay: eesti "I hate him." 4Dec

**Marcus, ME friend of Edward's**

**Alibi - ?**

**Motive - ?**

**\- Yay: SusanQ "Marcus. Marcus is in on it. Okay, maybe not the set-up of Edward, but hear me out: Marcus is sending the letters and flowers, she's not paying attention so he's stepped up his game. A squirrel here, a golden retriever there (she mentioned he was sturdy when she ran into him at the hospital). And why was he at the hospital? He WAS a ME, right? Is he stalking her? Why did Edward suddenly go see Bella? Was it at Jasper's urging, or was it at Marcus'? Has Marcus been biding his time? Is Marcus somehow related to Aro? Was Edward supposed to be the fall guy for Tanya's murder and then Bella ruined it? Aro threatened to kill her, right? And let's talk about this basement diorama. A dungeon is kind of like a basement, yes?" 19Mon, VampiresHaveLaws and SusanQ "****our money is on Marcus at the moment. I [VampiresHaveLaws] was like, "I think it's definitely him sending the letters. Plus, he lives in a cemetery... he could totally have a dungeon" and then she [SusanQ] picked up on little things like Bella mentioning Marcus was surprisingly strong, etc." 24Jan**

**SandPrincess13**, reviewer of "Gothic"

Alibi - ? but she was probably taking a test

Motive – Why not?

\- Yay: SandPrincess13 "I confess, I did it" 4Dec

**Rotary Club**

Alibi – Dinner at the Lodge

Motive – To hide the fact that they were having sex with Tanya

**\- Yay: LRK860 "****What about the rotary club members? Wouldn't that be funny? The members of the rotary club did it!" 13Dec**

**Everyone**

Alibi – if everyone is the killer then no one's alibi is any good, they're just covering for each other. And as for the call…maybe they wanted to make sure that Tanya was found when everyone seemed to have an alibi…

Motive – Cult like in _Wicker Man_. I mean the original movie, of course. And Edward's the ginger! Sacrificing him was part of the whole ritual!

\- Yay: VampiresHaveLaws "I pretty much suspect everyone. Seriously, everyone. Bella, Edward, Alice, Irina, Kate. All of them…This all screams ritualistic to me. The placement of the cuts especially. That's so specific. Medical, even. Some messed-up ritual to try and make Tanya "pure" by draining her? It could be cult related, those in higher places, and that's why the police didn't follow through with the investigation the way they should have. But then why only one murder? Why not more? Then we have Irina and her talk of vampires (she was a kid when Tanya was murdered, right? And kids unconsciously pick up on all sorts). And then there are the letters being sent to Bella and the dead animal turning up on her doorstep the day after she agrees to help Edward. And Eric's scar (what the hell did those kids do to him?) But then this doesn't explain why they/he/she would try and frame Edward. If he was even framed. And it doesn't explain why someone/he would report it all by making that call." 4Dec, **2old4fanfic "Still liking Aro for the murder, but a group of teens enacting a ritual in a cabin sounds like a good time. Or, it could be, "Deranged Housewives of Clallam COunty" getting back at the little husband thief." 11Dec**

**Vampire**, seen by Irene going in and out of Tanya's room

Alibi – Vampires don't exist (supposedly)

Motive – An insatiable thirst for life-blood

Votes:

\- Yay: Roxiegirl "sounds like a vampire to me LOL"

**Jack the Ripper**, I just felt like adding him, though in his defense, he probably would have taken some organs

Alibi – He would have to be really, really old

Motive – Penchant for women of ill repute

**Author-self-insert**, author of "Gothic" (this suspect was inspired by sharkjumper)

Alibi – Making author-self-insert the killer would require avant-garde maneuvers of a kind multiple reviewers would object to and is therefore unthinkable (or is it?).

Motive – Psycho


	22. Chapter 22

**Thanks to everyone who's reading!**

**And many thanks to tinie432 and **_**A Different Forest**_** for the Author Spotlight starring NewTwilightFan and little old me, which will be appearing on Friday, I believe. If you aren't reading NewTwilightFan, I'm sure it's just because your power keeps dying every time you click onto her page. Plug in your charger and go read her!**

**Meyer owns all, except for the lines that I stole from a traditional fairy tale and a theory that I stole from eustaciavye1, sharkjumper, socceredout, Fakin'it, MDtwiwriter and ChoFuSa. **

Chapter 18

'_Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart?' – E A Poe_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, our heroine learned that one of her students, Bree Tanner, was found dead in a warehouse, with all of the blood drained from her body. If the reader will recall, this was also the method used to dispatch Tanya Denali._

Jacob was wrong. He had to be wrong—there was no other explanation.

Bree, the student with fresh ideas who struggled with seventeenth century English couldn't be dead. "Are you sure it's her?" I asked. I was sure there had to be some kind of mistake.

"We're sure," Jacob confirmed, but I still didn't believe him.

"Who identified her?"

"Her mother."

I felt sick.

"Now, do you want to tell me why Edward Cullen says that the two of you have been looking into the case of a girl who was killed ten years ago in the exact same way that Bree Tanner was just murdered?"

I didn't know what to say.

Wait, Edward? The police had already talked to him? But that meant—

"Why would someone want to hurt Bree?" I asked.

"You tell me."

"This can't possibly have anything to do with Tanya."

"Tanya Denali?"

I nodded.

"Well, Tanya just happened to know the two of you and then she was murdered, wasn't she? Bree knew you and now she's dead. Did Bree also know Edward? Or was it just you?"

This was crazy. This couldn't be happening. "I'm her teacher."

"And Edward?"

"He hasn't got anything to do with this."

"He never met her?"

"She's a college kid." Was. She _was_ a college kid. "What would a kid like her be doing with Edward?"

"You tell me."

I shook my head. This didn't make any sense.

Jacob led me to a room with a table and three chairs and a mirrored wall. I wondered if I should ask for my lawyer. But why? I hadn't done anything wrong.

I was questioned for three hours by two detectives from the homicide division.

First, they wanted to know why I was looking into Tanya's death.

Because it wasn't solved, obviously.

"Ten year's a long time to wait," _Bad cop _pointed out.

I closed my eyes. I knew how it must sound. "Edward found me."

"Found you how?"

"His friend. I work with him."

"Why was Edward looking for you?"

"He wanted my help to find Tanya's killer."

"Why?"

_Why?_ "Why wouldn't Edward want to find her killer? Wouldn't anyone?"

"You didn't. Not for ten years."

"I wasn't the one accused of killing her."

"No you're just the one who got her killer off."

I opened my mouth to ask for a lawyer when _Good cop_ cut in.

"You've got to see it from our perspective. It's only natural that we'd wonder about the alibi that you gave him ten years ago," _Good cop_ explained. "That's all. I mean, Edward Cullen got off once. Now he's going to get off again."

"What do you mean 'get off _again_'?"

"You tell me."

"He didn't kill Bree."

"How do you know?"

I pursed my lips.

_Bad cop_ scoffed. "You don't have another alibi for him?"

I shrugged.

"You don't know?"

"I don't know when she was killed."

_Bad cop_ sneered.

"If there _is_ a connection," I said, "and I'm not convinced that there is, maybe the killer found out that Edward and I were asking questions."

"And this so-called killer responds to your curiosity how? By killing one of _your_ students? Does that make sense?"

It _did _sound stupid.

Then _Good cop_ said that the daughter of a police chief should know better than to get involved with something like this.

And it occurred to me that we were only sitting here because the _cops_ had screwed up Tanya's case. I decided to hold my tongue though. My father _was _a police officer, after all.

So I sat there and let the police make me feel like a criminal for the second time in ten years.

I stared at the door of the interrogation room as I answered their questions. '_I could leave,_' I thought. Just get up and walk away. I hadn't done anything wrong. Just gotten a girl killed. No big deal at all.

Because I wasn't completely stupid—Bree was dead because of me, even if they could never prosecute me for it. The similarity between her death and Tanya's was just too strong for me to deny that I was implicated, if only by drawing the killer's attention to her.

'_Bree's dead_,' I thought, trying to reconcile myself to the fact.

I pictured her sitting in my class. A sweet young thing. _Alive_. It wasn't right.

And then I realized that _that _was probably how the killer had found her. He'd seen her going into _my _class.

He must have followed me to campus. He clearly knew where I lived—he was the one leaving the animals on my doorstep.

Yet I found it hard to believe that Edward and I could have really rattled any cages. Who could we have possibly frightened with our amateur investigations?

Demetri.

It was Demetri.

But then I remembered the animals again. When had the first of the animals appeared? Jasper had already started at the university. It was after the happy hour. Well before I "questioned" Demetri.

I was an idiot. The murderer had seen me with Edward at the bar. That must have been the trigger.

Which meant that he had been watching Edward all of these years.

'_I could leave,_' I thought.

I imagined walking right out of that interrogation room, as if that alone would be enough to roll back the clock and bring Bree back to life. Maybe like Orpheus thinking, '_Just don't turn around_,' only to find out that it was too late. And for the record, only a tragic-graphic memory, covered in bloodstains.

_If this were a fairy tale_, I thought, _I'd be on my way to prison but a prince would rescue me. _

Some lines from a nursery rhyme ran through my head.

_'Who killed him?'_

_ 'Not I, not I.'_

_ 'Who killed him?'_

_ 'Not I, not I.'_

'_So who will mourn him?'_

'_Not I, not I.'_

Did Bree read fairy tales when she was a child? I remembered staring out of the window of one of my mother's apartments, watching little girls as they played circle games in the yellow-death grass of a collapsed tenement, wearing masks stuck with stars and wooden antlers. Some Cinderella, I'd make, too—scarred feet from the slimming exercises I'd have to use in order to cram my feet into those shoes, with a surrogate mother she-witch weaving spells to destroy me. Only it was my _own_ mother, wasn't it? My own flesh and blood. Not some proxy brought in by marriage.

A heroine, I thought, could escape, crawl through the crack under the door of that interrogation room like a spider. There were places a person could hide if she only knew where to look. I knew my Capellanus. '_Love in secret_,' he had said. '_And that which you love, may it be hard to obtain_.' Oh how Eleanor and her handmaidens had swooned, locking themselves away in castles and playing games 'till every one of their hearts was won by a lover more faithful than any other. A lover from whose chill embrace they never would afterwards stir.

There were no fairy tales these days though. There couldn't be. Not in a mechanized monster of a world.

I imagined the stories growing up out of the asphalt, in the cool dampness like urchins, like the whores of 7th Avenue.

I waited until the bottom of the third hour, when they asked me to tell the same story for the tenth time, to ask finally for a lawyer. They said that they were through and that I could go.

I left the precinct and went to a café across the street and bought a coffee. I sat by the window and watched the traffic going by outside.

I wondered what I should do next. I didn't have to teach class until the next day and it was only eleven. I thought of calling Seth or Alice, but quickly dismissed both ideas. What could they do? Besides, Seth was in Vancouver and Alice was dealing with her own issues.

I thought about calling my father but I was in no mood for a lecture about involving myself in Tanya's murder.

Jacob had said that he was going to go to my townhouse to take care of the goat and to look at my truck. I wondered if he was going to dust for fingerprints, then rebuked myself for speculating. Had I stayed out of the case altogether, Bree would still be alive. I should have refused Edward's request.

But what if that wasn't the reason for Bree's death? It couldn't possibly be revenge for the alibi that I'd given Edward ten years ago, could it? No one would wait a decade to strike back.

Unless they'd been indisposed for the last ten years. Out of the country or in prison.

Why didn't they go after Edward directly? Why hurt one of my students? Why focus on _me_?

A horrible notion occurred to me. What if it had always been about me? After all, Tanya and Edward had made my life miserable. Then Tanya was murdered and Edward was framed. What if—

No. No one had ever given a damn about me. I wasn't important enough to inspire the kind of insanity a scenario like that would require.

I knew only a few details about exactly what had happened to Bree. Her body had been discovered a few days ago but she had actually been dead for weeks. _How long had she lain there?_ I wondered. _Forgotten and ignored_.

Why hadn't I been questioned about her disappearance before today? Surely someone had called the police to report her missing.

I should have done something when she stopped coming to lecture. Yet students were always skipping lecture. Teachers never followed up.

A roommate or a family member must have reported her missing. I was sure of it. So why hadn't the police talked to me before? Shouldn't a teacher be someone they talked to? Or had they just assumed that she'd run off? Like some flighty innocent who was overwhelmed by the work and the stress. She _was_ overwhelmed. Even if the police had talked to me, I would have just confirmed their assumptions. It wasn't fair to Bree. And I didn't know anything about her private life. Did she have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Who was she last seen with? The police hadn't said anything to me about that.

I took out my phone and was not surprised to see several missed calls from Edward. I had put the phone on silent while I was in the station. I didn't want to talk to him though.

Opening a browser, I used my phone to search for the information that I wanted. I found disappointingly little. I couldn't find anything at all about Bree's disappearance but I did find an article about the chance discovery of a body in a derelict warehouse. Workers stumbled upon it by accident. The article didn't mention the victim's name or gender but I was sure that it was Bree. The article said that the police suspected foul play but it didn't say anything about the means of death.

Did Bree recognize her killer? How did the murderer get her to that factory? Did he beat her? Was she sexual assaulted? Tanya wasn't, but that didn't mean that Bree was so lucky. Was she still conscious when he slit her veins open? Did she feel any pain? Did she have time to realize that she was going to die? How long did it take for all of the blood to drain out of her?

If I was the one who the murderer wanted to hurt, why waste his time on Bree?

For a split second, I imagined myself in Bree's place. From a distance, I supposed, Bree and I could be mistaken for each other. We both had brown hair and similar complexions and builds.

I stopped myself. That was going too far. This wasn't only about me. It couldn't be. It was mainly about Edward. I bore some responsibility, yes, but it wasn't my fault alone. Because if it was, I didn't think that I could live with myself.

I sat in that café with my fists clenched and stared out of the window, my coffee going cold. I struggled for composure, not wanting my emotions to get the best of me. There was no point in—

From what the police had said, I gathered that one of the investigators had connected the two murders via the MOs, which was impressive given the gap between the crimes and the difference in locale. Then someone else had recognized my name from Bree's school papers as the person who'd been responsible for giving an alibi to the prime suspect in the original murder.

Maybe it was the other way around—maybe someone recognized my name and then connected the MOs. Whatever the case, the police had questioned Edward on Sunday—which was probably the reason for the sudden spike in his calls—and they would have called me in for questioning that very morning had I not walked into the precinct.

I suddenly pictured Bree's parents. How could I possibly apologize to them for something like this?

It was no good. Sitting here was accomplishing nothing.

I took a cab to the university and went directly to the Administration building. The person that I needed to see was in a meeting but he was expected back in half an hour.

Half an hour turned into an hour and by the time that I was done—because of course I couldn't explain everything without including Tanya's murder and my role in giving Edward an alibi, since the police's interest in me wouldn't make sense otherwise—it was after two.

I asked if they were going to pull me from my classes.

I couldn't have an answer right away. They'd have to discuss it first, after communicating with the police of course. In the meantime, perhaps I was too distraught to be in front of a classroom full of students. Did I want someone to take over my classes?

I said that I was fine to teach and, anyhow, I didn't have a class until Tuesday afternoon.

A skeptical glance was my reward, but I didn't know what else to say. I was operating on autopilot. I surely didn't want to sit at home doing nothing. If the university would let me teach, then that was what I was going to do.

_Was my demeanor all wrong?_ I wondered. Did I seem too calm? I glanced down at my hands, and saw that the shaking had stopped. I felt like a massive weight was pressing me down. If anything, I felt exhausted. Like I could pass out at any minute.

I probably looked and sounded just like a serial killer. All flat effect and no feeling.

I went to see my old mentor next. He taught early American history. He hadn't really been my mentor for a year, at least, but he still checked in on me now and then. And when the Americanists took over the lounge on the second floor—imperialists if ever there were—he made them give up several filing cabinets in the archives in exchange.

Fortunately, he was in his office.

"Are you sure this friend of yours," my mentor asked, "Edward Cullen, that he didn't have anything to do with Bree's death?"

"Why would he want to hurt one of my students?" It didn't make any sense.

He tapped a pen against the desk. "This guy spent the last ten years upset that no one ever found his girlfriend's killer. That sort of thing could unhinge a person."

I thought about it. Was Edward really capable of killing Bree? What could his motive possibly be?

I had to admit that as much as I disliked Edward, my distaste for him had more to do with what had happened ten years ago than anything he had done over the past two months. If I'd only just met him, we might not be friends but we would probably be acquaintances. I would have nothing to hold him against him but my innate prejudice against attractive, successful young men.

The Edward who I knew now was nothing like the Edward who I knew then. It was like night and day.

Like he had multiple personalities.

Maybe he _had_ snapped, like Irene.

Maybe Edward had become so obsessed with Tanya's murder that he had decided to recreate it with Bree. He might not even be conscious of all of his actions.

He could very well be the one leaving the dead animals on my doorstep, a deranged continuation of his harassment from high school. Or maybe he was angry because the police had become so fixated on me and the alibi that I'd given him that they'd totally botched the job of investigating Tanya's murder. Maybe he had killed Bree to get the police to reinvestigate the original case.

That didn't make any sense, but insanity couldn't be expected to be reasonable, could it?

It all came down to whether or not Edward was capable of murder. I didn't think he was, but what did I know? I was hardly learned in social behavior. I just followed the rules. I didn't know people. I couldn't predict their moods or read their thoughts. I might as well be blind.

He had once been a monster—hadn't he?—if not a killer. He'd bullied me in high school. And he himself said that Tanya's killer could be someone from Forks—someone we all knew and trusted. Edward said that anyone was capable of murder.

That included him.

I didn't know if Edward had killed Bree. The police weren't even clear with me as to the date of her death. I thought that they were probably waiting for the return of lab tests. So I couldn't give them Edward's whereabouts at the time of her death, let alone my own whereabouts.

My mentor went on for a bit more, reminding me that the university offered counseling services. At last, I made my excuses and got up to go. He said that I should let him know if I needed anything, and I said that I would, knowing that his offer was just a pleasantry. He wasn't promising me anything more than a friendly ear, and he'd just given me that. I couldn't impose any further.

I walked slowly back to my office. I was going to pull up the syllabi for my classes and make sure that the outlines were available in case someone had to take over for me. In case I was arrested or—

No. I wasn't in any danger. I couldn't bring myself to believe that.

I also wanted to find Bree's last essay, a response paper to Darnton's _The Great Cat Massacre. _I was going to turn it over to the police. I didn't see how it could help—but I had to try.

I turned the corner of the last hallway and hesitated. The door of my office was ajar.

I stood there for half a minute, staring at the cracked door, then stumbled forward, on autopilot still. It didn't even occur to me to call for help. _Why would someone want to break into my office?_

I didn't come to a full stop again until I was standing in the doorway and gazing inside. At the devastation that reigned there.

Papers were scattered everywhere, the monitor of my computer was on the ground and my books—so many books—all of my books had been torn down from the shelves, the pages ripped out and the bindings left tossed about in heaps like disemboweled carcasses.

And Edward Cullen was standing right in the middle of all of the chaos.

**AN: **

**Rec: Mosaic of a Broken Heart by NewTwilightFan **Bella doesn't let people in easily. When she does, she commits absolutely - to family, to friends, to love. With a blossoming career and a fiance she adores, there isn't much more she expects out of life. Then, a crushing revelation derails her dreams and fractures her sense of self. Gluing the pieces back together isn't easy when you can't find them all. Twilight - Rated: M - English - Drama/Romance - Chapters: 24 - Words: 47,512 - Reviews: 357 - Favs: 233 - Follows: 421 - Updated: Jan 30 - Published: Mar 1, 2014 - Bella, Edward


	23. Chapter 23

**Thanks for reading!**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 19

'_It was a dim, twilight place, where one felt as if he were on the point of penetrating rare mysteries.' – Hawthorne _

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, our heroine arrived at her office only to find that it had been ransacked, and that Edward Cullen was standing in the very midst of the chaos._

The gasp of horror gave me away. Edward swung around to face me.

"Thank God you're alright," he breathed, lurching towards me, his feet treading unsteadily over the volumes that had been tossed so callously on the ground.

I backed up a step. "What are you doing here?" I asked, unable to keep a note of dread out of my voice.

Edward hesitated, watching me warily. "I just got here and found the room like this. I was afraid that you were hurt. I came inside to make sure that you weren't lying on the other side of the desk."

I glanced at my desk, an ancient wooden frigate from the bowels of the university. It would have hidden my crumpled form very well. The computer monitor was face down on one side of the desk, papers and pens strewn across the rest of the surface.

"The door was open?" I asked, because I had to.

"The door was closed. You didn't answer when I knocked, so I tried the knob. It wasn't locked. Then, when I saw," Edward looked around, "this, I had a fucking heart attack. You got here literally thirty seconds after I did."

I closed my eyes and put a hand to my forehead, a rushing sound in my ears. I just needed one minute—just one minute—and then I could deal with all of this. I felt like the world was spinning.

The next thing I knew, Edward had wrapped an arm around my waist and was guiding me towards one of the hard wooden chairs that was sitting in the hallway for students. I felt odd, as if there was a layer of cotton insulating me from the pressure of Edward hands pushing me down into the chair.

"Is everything okay?" I heard Angela ask. She had the office a few doors down the hallway, and must have come out when she heard us speaking.

I opened my eyes and saw Angela standing in my doorway.

"Oh my God," she started.

"Don't touch anything," Edward told her, his fingers slipping to my wrist as if he meant to check my pulse. I pushed his hands away.

"I can't believe someone would do this," Angela said, turning towards me with a sympathetic expression. "Do you want me to call the police?"

"Jacob," I said.

"What?" Edward turned towards me.

"I should call Jacob," I explained, but he didn't seem to understand.

"I'll call campus police," Angela told us, and hurried off to her office.

The stir we were making had started to draw more attention. Mrs. Cope and a few grad students were approaching.

I fumbled with the zipper of my purse and pulled out my cell, my fingers shaking as I dialed the numbers. Fortunately, Jacob answered right away.

"Jacob," I began, but stopped. It was all too much. It wasn't real. Edward pulled the cell out of my hand and asked Jacob to identify himself, then explained where we were and that my office had just been broken into.

By the time that Edward finished explaining, Mrs. Cope had appointed one of the grad students to shoo newcomers away and had brought me a peppermint tea, patting my shoulder. Angela had returned and was standing next to me, looking like she wanted to hug me, but realizing, I suppose, that I wouldn't welcome it. Instead she wringed her hands and watched me worriedly.

"Jasper has class," Edward said to me, reading the screen of his phone, "but he says that he'll get here as soon as he can." I didn't understand what Jasper had to do with anything that was happening but I didn't have the energy to make inquiries.

Angela and Edward waited with me until campus police arrived, then stepped away from me to explain the situation. I closed my eyes again, not opening them until I heard Edward arguing with one of the campus policemen, the latter casting looks my way as if he wanted to question me. I felt like I was going to throw up. The peppermint tea was doing little to settle my stomach.

"Bella?" I heard Jacob calling my name, and turned to see him taking in the war zone that was my office.

"What happened?" he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Edward cut me off. "Like I said to you on the phone, she got here about twenty minutes ago and found me inside the office."

"What were you doing in her office?" Jacob snapped.

"I was worried about her. She wouldn't answer her cell and I wanted to make sure that she was alright. I figured that the police would have talked to her about Bree Tanner already, and I knew she would be upset. I got Jasper to give me directions to her office."

"Doesn't explain what you were doing in her office."

Edward explained again about knocking and trying the doorknob, then going inside to make sure that I wasn't lying unconscious behind the desk.

"And you expect me to believe that you just found the office like this?" Jacob asked.

"I got off work fifteen minutes before Bella found me in her office. You can check with the hospital. There is no way that I could have done all of this damage in that amount of time."

Angela added her two cents. "I didn't hear anything and I would have. I've been here since eight this morning. Whoever did this must have done it over the weekend."

Jacob turned to me for confirmation and all I could do was shrug. "When was the last time you were in your office?" he questioned.

"Thursday afternoon," I told him.

He looked as if he wanted to ask more questions, but Edward held up a hand and shook his head.

The same two detectives who had questioned me at the police station that morning appeared and Jacob carried out a series of hushed conversations with them and the campus police. Angela brought me another peppermint tea and I sipped it slowly, trying not to think about the chaos that was my office.

After a while, Jasper appeared, nodding at me and taking up sentry after a brief conversation with Edward, relieving the grad student who'd been keeping everyone at bay. Edward tried to check my pulse again but I knocked his hand away.

Jacob approached me again. "Bella, we need you to let us know if you notice anything that appears to be missing. We don't want you to touch anything yet. Just take a look around and tell us if anything glaringly obvious is gone."

I stood carefully. Edward stayed by my side as I slowly approached the door of my office. A foot away from the door, Jacob and Edward scowled at each other for a minute until Jacob moved to let us pass. I was annoyed with both of them—_What the hell did they think they were doing?_—but I also felt dizzy, so I didn't complain when Edward put a hand to the small of my back. I stopped in the doorway and looked inside, then wished I hadn't.

It was chaos. The victims—Radcliffe, Lewis, Brontë, Leroux, Hugo, Beckford, Hawthorne, Le Fanu, Poe, de Sade, Beirce, Machen, Lovecraft, Lee, Collins, Stoker, Stevenson, Walpole, Shelley (both of them), Schiller, Spiess, Hoffman, Crowley, Bentley, Gilchrist, Polidori, Reynolds and so many more. And that was to say nothing of the many works of philosophy—Hume, Voltaire, Montaigne, and others—the volumes of art and architecture, with their prints and watercolors and sketches, as well as the volumes of secondary scholarship. Just last Thursday they'd all sat peacefully on my shelves. Now they lay torn and ruined on the floor, their pages ripped out and the spines broken, the fragile leaves of the older prints lying exposed like so much savaged flesh, victim of rapine, the scene resembling nothing less than _The Death of Sardanapalus_. I felt myself wavering, but Edward steadied me. I pulled away.

"There's nothing," I rasped. "I don't know." How could I tell? Until I went through it all? Even then, there might be some minor pamphlet or work of secondary scholarship that I forgot to cite.

"Did you keep anything valuable here?" Jacob asked.

"Are you kidding me?" I couldn't check the hysterical burst of laughter. "All of my books. All of them." I stopped myself.

"Were they collectibles?"

"They were _mine_," I snapped, unable to stop the surge of anger that I felt at his ridiculous question. And yes, some of them were the sort of thing that a minor collector with limited funds might be interested in obtaining. But even the mass produced works mattered. _They were mine_. "Nothing worth more than a hundred." Not much, perhaps, to anyone else. I wanted to scream. Instead, I swallowed hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay.

One of the detectives from the morning interrupted. "Anything else?" he asked. _Asshole_. He probably thought that I'd wrecked the office myself. He'd been all too eager to accuse me of leaving those animals on my doorstep, so why not this too? As if I was capable of killing a golden retriever or a goat. As if I could be capable of inflicting the violence that my books had suffered.

"I kept students' papers here." I glanced at the desk where I'd left the papers in a neat stack. The stack was gone, replaced by reams and reams of computer paper, manually shredded and scattered like confetti. "Bree's last essay was here. I was going to find it and give it to you."

That seemed to perk everyone's interest. "What was it about?" the other detective from this morning asked.

"Just a two-page response to _The Great Cat Massacre._" I took in the blank gazes. "About the French Revolution."

"Are you done with Bella?" Edward changed the subject. "Because if so, I want to take her home."

"No," I said. "I need to get my syllabi and find Bree's paper."

"You're not going to be able to get into your office for a while," Jacob cautioned. Then, casting an unfriendly glance in Edward's direction, he said, "And I don't think you should be at home by yourself."

"Which is why she's coming home with me," Edward explained.

_What the fuck?_ That shook me out of my haze to some extent. "I can't go home with you," I replied at the same time that Jacob said, "She can't go home with you."

"Who are you going to stay with, then? Because I'm not letting you stay by yourself," Edward said to me, ignoring Jacob. "I know all about the little presents you've been receiving on your doorstep too, so don't try to worm your way out of this." He knew about the animals? How?

"You can stay with Charlie," Jacob said. "I already called him."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to leave Seattle," I retorted. I hadn't actually been told as much, but I had assumed it. "Besides, I have to teach. I can't just go. I'll stay with Angela." Hoping that I wasn't overstepping, I snapped my eyes to Angela, who'd been observing the spectacle anxiously.

She didn't even have a chance to respond before both Edward and Jacob were shooting that option down on the basis of gender bias.

I huffed. "Fine. I'll stay with Seth," I said, knowing that Seth was out of town.

"You can't stay with him," Edward argued, "he's in Vancouver."

_How the fuck did he know that?_ I wondered, uncomfortable with Edward's level of prescience with regard to my friends.

"There's no way I'm letting her go home with you, man," Jacob protested again.

Edward wasn't backing down. "Why not?"

"Besides your girlfriend being the one who died ten years ago? How about the fact that you were found standing in the middle of Bella's office?"

"I'm telling you, I left work fifteen minutes before Bella found me. Check with the hospital." Edward crossed his arms. "We'll wait."

Grimacing, Jacob turned away and conferred with the detectives. I heard a rushing in my ears and sat down again, closing my eyes, trying to block everything out, and hoping against hope that when I opened my eyes I'd realize that this had all been a nightmare. That Bree was still alive. That my books were safe. That a goat wasn't lying on my doorstep at home.

I couldn't be sure, but I was fairly certain that I was about two seconds away from a complete mental breakdown.

I hadn't felt like this since college. So powerless. So confused.

I couldn't let myself go back there. I couldn't do it again.

Despite my determination to maintain a firm grip on reality, the hallway felt like it was spinning around me when Edward touched my shoulder and said we could go. I wondered what Jacob would say if I passed out. _Would it just make me look more guilty?_ Like I was unhinged or like I was orchestrating everything in some desperate bid for attention and sympathy.

Wanting to get my bearings before standing, I looked around and was taken aback by the sight of an investigator taking photographs of my office while someone else appeared to be dusting for prints on my door. _This can't be real._ I stared at them until Edward touched my shoulder again.

When I finally stood up to leave, Angela went in for that hug she'd clearly been wanting to give me and told me to call her if I needed anything. But what on earth could she possibly do to help me?

Jasper, who was still standing guard, offered to take my class on Tuesday. I declined.

Jacob met us at the end of the hallway. "Call me if _anything_ happens," he said, raising a hand as though to touch my arm, but I pulled out of reach.

I nodded. _What else can happen at this point? _

"She'll be fine," Edward said, returning his hand to the small of my back.

Ignoring both of them and drawing away from Edward's hand—wishing I knew why everyone had decided to start touching me—I turned towards the exit, wondering if the Chair had heard about the break-in yet and what on earth they were saying about me in the teachers' lounge or, horror of horrors, the grad students' lounge.

Fortunately, Edward picked up on my disinclination to chat and led me out to his car in silence. I didn't even bother to argue about taking a taxi. I just wanted off the campus. He opened the passenger door for me, as per usual, and waited for me to climb in, then snatched a ticket from under the windshield wiper for having parked illegally in the lot nearest the history building, before climbing behind the wheel. I opened my mouth to ask him why he hadn't parked in the visitors' lot, but what was a ticket after everything else that had happened?

I rested my head against the back of the seat and closed my eyes as Edward drove us off of the campus.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Why are we here?" I asked when I realized that Edward had actually taken me to his building.

He gave me a funny look, having raced around to my side of the car to open the door for me. "You're staying with me, remember?"

"You don't really have to do this," I complained, as he took my messenger bag from me. "And besides, I don't have any clothes."

"I'll lend you something. You need to sleep. When's the last time you had something to eat?"

"I had toast this morning. I haven't been feeling well. I had trouble sleeping this weekend." I didn't want him to feel sorry for me. He probably thought that I was in shock. It wasn't any of his business how I felt. I didn't want him or anyone else taking care of me.

Edward punched a code into the keypad by the elevator and, when the doors opened, boarded behind me and pressed the button for his floor. "Didn't you get my voicemail this morning?"

"I was busy. I didn't listen to it yet." I explained, knowing how foolish that must sound.

"The police told you about Bree Tanner this morning?"

I nodded, preceding Edward out of the elevator and waiting as he unlocked his door. "There's a camera in the garage," he said. "And another one in the elevator. You can't get into the elevator or the stairwell without entering the code or having someone buzz you in."

"I remember." He'd had to buzz me in before.

"I just want to make sure that you feel safe here," Edward told me, ushering me through the door. A clock on the wall showed that it was already after six. Where had the day gone?

Edward showed me to a guest room, gave me a t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants and left me to change. I sat on the bed and stared at the clothes.

_What am I doing here?_

Edward couldn't hold me captive. The police couldn't tell me what to do either. I wanted to go home. If I could just get inside, I would be fine. It was only the front door that posed a problem. Once inside, I would have my books and my movies and my cheap art prints. All of my things. I was sure that I would be safe enough inside.

_Safe_.

What if, while I wasn't home, someone broke into my house and destroyed the books there like they'd destroyed the books in my office? I _was_ my books. Without them I was nothing.

What did a killer want with me anyhow? I wasn't interesting. This was all preposterous. A sick joke.

I looked round the room. It was decorated in shades of green that matched Edward's eyes. If Bree's killer was the same person who'd killed Tanya—and who else could it be?—then he'd waited until Edward and I had met again before striking once more. Why?

Staring at the walls, that bold shade of green, I felt my resolve return.

I knew what I was going to do. But I would have to wait until Edward left the apartment or went to sleep.

I picked up the clothes and looked at them. They were several sizes too large but the pants had a drawstring.

I changed. Then, feeling incredibly awkward, I wandered out of the guest room and down the hall to what I discovered was the kitchen. Edward had changed into sleep clothes as well and was standing at the stove, fiddling with a pan.

"Eggs okay?" he asked.

"You don't have to cook for me," I said, feeling like I'd inadvertently wandered onto the set of _The Twilight Zone._ This—Edward making me breakfast in his kitchen and putting me to bed in his clothes—was too intimate. I hadn't any way to repay the favor and I—

I looked at Edward—

I didn't know the person standing at the stove. He was utterly foreign to me. _Kind. Generous._

And if I didn't know who he was then how could I be sure who I was?

I didn't understand it.

But I was so tired and confused.

"I'm already cooking for myself," he said. "Besides, you made me cake. Remember?"

My cake. I'd been so angry about leaving that leftover cake with him. It seemed so ridiculous now.

I sat down at the breakfast bar and watched Edward cook, my chin resting on my folded arms. I didn't see how he could be so calm, stirring the eggs and pouring them into a pan. A girl had died.

"She was my student," I said, my voice breaking despite myself.

Edward paused in his stirring and turned towards me and so I quickly buried my face in my arms, not wanting him to see me cry. I had never let him see me cry, not even in high school.

I felt his hand on my shoulder and stiffened—my skin burning where I could feel his fingers through the fabric—but that is one of the rules: You pretend to take the comfort that is offered so as not to offend. But I didn't want it. Not from anyone. I wished that everyone would stop touching me.

I breathed carefully for a minute, before sitting up straight. "I'm okay," I told him, my voice steady as I forced my eyes to meet his.

Edward studied me for a minute before he dropped his hand and returned to his eggs.

"Do you think it's the same person?" I asked.

Edward took a few beats to reply. "It has to be."

"Then it's our fault."

"It's not our fault," Edward's voice rang with conviction.

"It is. They're upset that we started asking questions."

"I never stopped asking questions."

My heart dropped. He was right. "Then it's just me. It's because I started asking questions."

Edward's face whipped in my direction. "It's not your fault."

"Of course it is." I shrugged. "I can take responsibility. It's alright."

"How could it possibly be your fault?"

I explained in a subdued tone. "If I hadn't started questioning people, if I'd told Bree to drop my class when she asked for my advice—she wanted to drop it, you know—if I'd just told her to withdraw, she would be alive today." I traced a random design on the surface of the breakfast bar. "The hazards of chance and the inescapability of karma," I concluded quietly.

"Chaos theory and Buddha?"

"More like Jean-Paul Sartre," I replied solemnly.

"I never would have figured you for a twenty-first century philosopher." He was trying to make light of it, I thought, to cheer me up. I wanted to tell him to stop. That there was something reassuring in melancholy. It was so consistent.

However, I did not want him to think that his effort was totally in vain. I smiled weakly. "I am also fond of Plato, Plotinus, Erasmus, Nietzsche and Kant. But Sartre's more _a propos_ to the current issue, perhaps, and not so modern, I think."

Edward divided the eggs between two plates and handed one to me. "I don't read much philosophy," he admitted.

"Of course not. You are you and I am me." We were utterly different.

He sat down across from me with his own eggs. "You're so tired that you're not making sense."

Which just proved my point: We had so little in common that we could not even communicate effectively.

"You look tired too," I accused him, noting his haggard appearance.

"I've been working since Sunday. Eat."

I took a bite of my eggs. They were tasteless, but I wasn't sure if it was because Edward couldn't cook or because I was too upset to appreciate them. I watched Edward under lowered eyelids. "How did you know about the animals being left on my doorstep?"

"The police accused me of leaving them. Why didn't you tell me about them?"

I ignored his question. "When did you talk to the police?"

"Sunday. They came to the hospital. I would have driven straight to your place but we were slammed and the cops promised that they were going to check on you. At the time I didn't realize that meant that they were going to wait half a fucking day to do it. I drove to the university the second that I got off work."

I ignored the sentimental aspects of his narrative and proceeded to heart of the problem. "If it's the same person who killed Tanya, why have they started up again?"

"Because they know that we're close to the truth."

I scoffed. "We aren't close to anything."

"Well, someone's afraid that we are. Maybe it's one of the guys who slept with Tanya or it's Eric—"

"It's not Eric. I saw him a few weeks ago myself. It's not him."

Edward dropped his fork. "You talked to Eric on your own?"

I put down my fork, too. "I did."

"What's wrong with you? He could have hurt you."

"He didn't hurt me. And he didn't kill Tanya. I know all about how he was stabbed that night. I refuse to believe that you didn't know about that too."

"I knew about his accident. But it happened after ten o'clock. Eric had more than enough time to get back from Port Angeles by then."

"Accident? How does someone get stabbed _by accident_? Did your little friends tell you that it was just an accident?" It was just so easy to slip into an argument with Edward. And I hadn't even fessed up to meeting Demetri yet.

"He was stabbed by James' bitch girlfriend. Everyone knew that. She wasn't my friend. Even James said that he was afraid of her."

"Whatever. The first animal showed up on my doorstep well before I questioned Eric." The implications were obvious. "If it's connected, this didn't start because you and I were asking questions about Tanya. This started because you and I were seen together."

Edward shook his head slowly. "You know that means someone has been watching you. The whole time."

"Or you. They could have been watching you." My eyes dropped to my plate. "Or maybe they just happened to see us together. By chance."

There was a beat of silence and then Edward agreed. "Maybe."

I knew that neither of us really believed that.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I went to the guest bedroom and crawled under the covers. I didn't plan on sleeping. I just needed to wait until I was sure that Edward was asleep. And despite my exhaustion, I never imagined that I could possibly feel comfortable enough in Edward's apartment to get any rest. But I was unconscious within moments.

My rest was disturbed by strange, discordant dreams filled with flashes of memories from high school and that day in the woods ten years ago when I'd seen Edward in the meadow, with scenes from the police station both now and then—a detective accusing me of covering for Edward or worst yet, of helping him commit the crimes—and images of the cabin where Tanya had died, an empty warehouse where they'd found Bree's body and a silver Volvo.

When I woke up, it was seven o'clock in the morning. Chaotic as my dreams had been, I felt much better. I was determined to take action.

Checking my phone, I found a text from Alice saying that Jasper had told her everything. She knew that I was staying with Edward and offered to bring me some clothes in a few hours. I hadn't planned on seeing Alice so soon after the "incident" at the gallery, but beggars can't be choosers. I sent a quick text accepting her offer and dropped the phone on the bed. It was now or never.

I crept to the door of my room and listened carefully. Hearing nothing, I slowly opened the door. The hallway was empty. I slipped down the passage and saw that Edward's bedroom door was still closed. There was no sound of a shower either.

I decided that Edward must be asleep.

Steeling my nerves, I set about executing my plan.

It wasn't easy. I was always the one person that could be trusted to not go through someone else's medicine cabinet, if only because I simply wasn't interested. I didn't _want_ to know the dark little secrets that would make me think less of anyone. _And yet here I was going through Edward's things like a common pervert!_ Of course, Edward would hardly have invited me to his apartment if there was any incriminating evidence lying about, and I was fairly certain that he wasn't a homicidal maniac. But I had to be sure.

I quickly perused the bookshelves standing next to the entertainment center in the living room and saw nothing out of order. To be sure, Edward might have tucked some stray bits of evidence into one of the volumes, but I didn't want to waste time on a more thorough search just yet, eager to move onto the study that I knew was waiting at the end of the hallway.

Tiptoeing into said study, I glanced around. The walls were lined in rich woodwork, with windows flanking the desk and another doorway standing in the far corner. The latter led to Edward's bedroom, I thought, while another doorway in his bedroom opened directly into the hallway. The door in the study was cracked open just a smidge, but I was determined not to let that deter me. I would be ever so quiet as I went about my search.

I couldn't help but notice the cork board, with all of the disturbing pictures of Tanya's autopsy and the cabin in the woods, standing against the near wall, mercifully turned so that the photos faced the woodwork. The "murder books" were stacked on a small table, with maps of La Push, Forks, and Port Angeles hanging on the walls above, colorful pushpins marking various spots.

Creeping over to the desk, I scanned the papers on top. Medical journals and receipts for groceries. Boring.

Moving a journal aside, I saw a copy of the book that I myself had written. Flipping it open, I found whole pages highlighted.

I certainly hadn't written anything _that_ compelling.

Deciding to ignore for the present Edward's disturbing fondness for green highlighters, I closed the book and resumed my search. I carefully opened the top left hand drawer of the desk and peered at the mess of pens and paperclips inside. Moving onto the next drawer, I found a jumble of bills, none too carefully sorted. Casting another glance at the door to Edward's bedroom to make sure that it was still in the same position, I opened the last drawer in the desk.

And felt my heart stutter and stop. _How could he?_

**AN: What do you think she found?**

**Rec: Deep Dog Walking Thoughts by staceleo **Bella's life was now determined by reflections she had when walking her beloved dog. The animal had saved her from a broken heart. When a man plagued with a past that is full of sadness comes to her door can she save him or will it lead her to further heartbreak? Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Drama - Bella, Edward - Chapters: 13 - Words: 32,783 - Reviews: 770 - Favs: 365 - Follows: 395 - Updated: May 13, 2014 - Published: Nov 4, 2013 - Status: Complete - id: 9820880


	24. Chapter 24

**Many thanks to KatHat, Beegurl13 and Ms. Swan's Bookstore for the review!**

**And thank you to everyone for reading!**

**Meyer owns all.**

**EPOV!**

_**You mean this chapter's in EPOV?**_

**Yep.**

_**It's about damn time.**_

**Yeah, well, here it is: EPOV.**

_**So you said. Start the chapter already.**_

**I just want to make sure that everyone realizes it's EPOV.**

_**We get it**_**.**

**Because I don't want anyone to complain that they didn't get that.**

_**Start the fucking chapter!**_

**EPOV**

Chapter 20

EPOV

I had one fucking nightmare after another.

I was exhausted. I had passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow. But my dreams were too fucked up for me to get any real rest.

I woke twice—images of Tanya and some faceless girl lying in pools of their own blood driving me right out of bed. Unable to stop myself, I crept down the hall to Bella's room and leered at her like a creeper from the doorway, the anxiety in my chest abating slightly with the sight of her sleeping form.

After staring at her for longer than was really necessary to satisfy myself that she was alive and well, I forced myself to go back to my room, only to throw myself on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

The images kept repeating on a loop: Tanya's smiling face, the photo of Bree Tanner that the cops had shown me, the bedlam that was Bella's office, Bella's forlorn face when I brought her home from the university.

I threw an arm over my face, trying to block it all out—I was just so fucking tired, but I didn't want to fall asleep again only to have another nightmare. I tried to think of something else, but work just reminded me of those fuckers questioning me in the goddamned nurse's station. I wasn't surprised that my dreams were filled with such sick images—my very life was turning into a nightmare. A random quote crossed my mind: '_They are bestial, the stars are_, _for it is thus, while shining down on a person that they can drive him to madness, to a life lived as though in dream_.'

What the fuck did that even mean?

It was from Bella's book, or maybe it was from one of the stories that she'd mentioned. I'd been reading a lot lately, after all, trying to catch up on all of the literature that seemed to monopolize so much of Bella's time, thinking it might give me some insight into the way her mind worked.

Good luck with that!

'_The sweetness of those joys tainted by the knowledge that the respite they offer is transitory.'_

Did that shit always have to be so dark?

"Yes. Yes of course it does," I imagined—or dreamt—Bella responding.

And I was back in the gallery, staring at those fucking pictures again with Alice yakking in the background. And when I turned around, there was zombie Bella.

Even in my sleep, I could hear myself groaning. Fuck that shit. Those pictures were fucking ridiculous, but I'd taken care of them. And how the fuck Jasper put up with a bitch like Alice was beyond me. Not that I was putting much stock in anything she'd said. But still, I couldn't help but wonder. Like who the fuck was Phil? And what was that about Bella killing herself?

Of course it would've been much easier to forget everything Alice had said were it not for the fact that her words sent Bella straight into zombie-mode. Watching Bella "turn off" made my skin crawl.

My comment about the pictures probably didn't help either, because it was pretty fucking clear that Bella took it the wrong way. I didn't want to push her, but maybe I should have.

But as usual, I was so afraid that she was about to bolt that I just kept my mouth shut, certain that if I didn't tread lightly, she'd tell me to fuck off and that would be it.

_It._ The end.

The end of what?

I wished I knew.

As it was, Bella barely said a fucking word to me on the way home on Friday, turning all too easily back into the nonentity I remembered so well from high school. And she barely responded to my calls on Saturday and Sunday. She was pushing me away.

_'If ignorance is akin to sleep then what is a dream?'_

I was back at work then and the police were questioning me—like they couldn't wait another minute. It took them ten years to get off their asses and do their jobs but they couldn't wait until I was at home to pull that shit on me?

And they were only there, it turned out, because one of Bella's students had been killed. It took another girl losing her life for them to give a fuck.

"Do you know this woman?" they asked, showing me a picture.

"Never saw her before," I told them. What the hell were they doing questioning me when they should have been out there looking for the killer?

They snickered. "You sure about that?"

It was all I could do not to tell them to fuck off. I wasn't going to let myself be railroaded again. I wasn't some punk kid anymore. I told myself that I should just be grateful that they were finally getting their shit together.

By the time they left, I was fucking losing it. I would've left work to check on Bella myself except that we were slammed in the ER and I knew my back-ups weren't in a position to really step in—one of the nurses had gotten married that afternoon and everyone had rubbed my nose in the fact that I had to work, promising to get plastered on my behalf.

Besides, the cops had _promised_ that they were going to stop by and talk to Bella. So I settled for calling her over and over again between cases, like a fucking stalker. She finally condescended to leave me a voicemail so that I knew that she was alright, at least for the time being.

Come to find out that the cops decided to put off their little visit with Bella. They had no problem putting the screws to me—at my place of work, no less—but God forbid they should warn Bella that there was a probable serial killer targeting her. What if Bella hadn't gone in to the station Monday morning? Were the cops just going to sit on their asses until it was Bella's corpse lying on the floor of a warehouse?

I felt sick just imagining it.

The real prince of idiocy, however, was one Edward Anthony Cullen.

I was a fucking moron. How could I have possibly imagined that getting Bella involved with all of this shit was a good idea?

Thanks to me, some sick fuck had trashed her office and had been leaving dead animals on her doorstep for weeks.

And why hadn't she told me about the animals?

Oh, that's right. Because she fucking hated me.

I never pretended to be a saint, but wasn't that part of my life over? There had to be a statute of limitations on that shit.

Which just went to show that I was still a selfish asshole—imagining that the world was organized for my own comfort. Like it was all a supermarket. _Fuck up this much and pay that much_. Like the world's convenient like that.

I was trying. I wasn't lying when I told Bella that I hated working in the ER. But I wasn't really telling the truth when I said that I wanted to go into private practice. That was my father's idea. _Fuck you, dad._ Remaining in the ER was a small show of rebellion. How ridiculous was that? A grown man still trying to balk his father's will.

I _was_ helping people, though. Didn't that count for something?

Never mind all of time that I spent with Marcus, thinking that if I could just learn to get inside the mind of a deviant that I could figure out who killed Tanya. I spent years studying serial killers. Even I knew that was fucked up.

A person's better off not knowing all of the sick things that people do to one another. There are some things that I couldn't just un-know.

I dreamt that I was at Marcus' and we were looking at crime scene photos. The images made Tanya's crime scene look like a picnic.

'_This seeming Spring is your beauty_.'

Suddenly, it was Bella's body in those crime scene photos. I dreamt that she was the one lying there dead. I felt myself beginning to gag—

We were back in the gallery then and she was bending over a sculpture.

"What is it supposed to be?" I asked.

"It's you," she said and I squinted at the object, trying to understand how she could possibly imagine that the tangle of blocks and squares on that pedestal was anything like me.

But this was Bella. She knew the real me, so who was I to argue?

No one else saw me the way that she did. Not even my parents.

I saw the way that people looked at me. As if they weren't entirely sure that I wasn't the sort of monster who could kill his girlfriend and get off scot free, because supposedly there weren't penalties for people like me.

So I worked at my penance, for all of the good that did me.

Bella was different. She _knew_ that I was innocent.

If anyone, I thought that she should be able to see how much I'd changed. _She_ had changed, after all.

I dreamt that I was going back through that box of old photos that I'd dug up a few days before the bullshit at the gallery. The photos were from high school, and I wanted to compare them to the pictures of the bonfire at First Beach that Bella had found in her father's attic. I had flipped through a few of the photos in the box when I came across one with Bella in the background.

It was such a shock seeing the old Izzy, remembering the way she'd carried herself back then, always hunched over. I recalled all too clearly the strange shuffling gait she'd use to scurry through the hallways, an oversized hoody wrapped around her like a burka, her baggy clothes like circus clown hand-me-downs. It all screamed _Easy pickings_, and I'd been asshole enough to take the bait.

I dreamt-remembered the way that I'd sat there, studying that old high school picture, tilting the image this way and that, trying to recognize the _Bella of now_ in this picture of _Izzy from the past_. _Where was she? _

Bella wasn't a conventional beauty, I had to admit, not then or now. And she hadn't fully grown into her own in high school, but something was already there. Not the classic regularity of Tanya's face, but something wilder, something unwilling to follow the rules. Like one of the portraits that my mother kept dragging me to see whenever there was a new showing—Thomas Dewing's _Comedia_ or _The Letter _or _The Spinnet_. Carefree. Because she didn't a shit about anyone or anything. Always either laughing at me or ignoring me. Disinterested. As if she was saying _I've got a secret_ and _Fuck you if you think I'm telling._

The scene of my dream shifted, and I was suddenly standing in a cemetery that I'd once visited in Mexico. There was a statue there that reminded me of Bella. Or at least the Bella who I sometimes saw, when she wasn't doing anything—a rare occasion for her—not mocking me or making me feel stupid with her esoteric rambling, because if she wasn't doing one she was almost always doing the either. There was something in Bella's expression that made her look just like that statue. Like she had a secret again, only this time, instead of making her laugh at me, it set her at peace.

And how I wanted in on the mystery.

Had all of that really been there ten years ago? How could I have missed it?

The Izzy I'd gone to high school with had never called me on my shit.

The Bella that I knew now would not only call me on my shit, she was happy to dish out plenty of her own. She didn't hide.

No, that wasn't true. She hid all of the time. But I was seeing more and more of the real her—or at least what I imagined must be the real her. Flashes of this wild thing behind the cloak she'd always worn. I wanted to know _her_. The Bella behind all of those cloaks.

If I could go back in time, I would do it all differently. Pay attention to all of the signs that said that there was something seriously wrong in the Denali house, for one. Stand my ground with my parents about college. I wouldn't go to Julliard, but I wouldn't go to Dartmouth. I'd double major in music.

Maybe I'd actually talk to Bella. Ask her about the things Tanya said about her.

I dreamt that I was in the cafeteria again and Tanya was whispering in my ear. Telling me all of these things that Izzy had said.

Bella had a morbid personality, even then. But I couldn't see her being intentionally cruel, especially not the Bella who I'd gone to high school with. No doubt, Tanya had just misheard some crack that Izzy had made about suicide—we were reading all of those grisly Poe stories, after all, and based on what Alice had said in the gallery, Bella _had_ said something about suicide at least once. Naturally, Tanya would have taken anything that Bella might have said personally, because fucking _everything_ was always about Tanya.

I wanted to ask Bella about it but I didn't know how.

'_Hey Bella, you know how Tanya and I made your life a living hell? Well do you think maybe you deserved it? Like because of something you said about Tanya's mother maybe killing herself?'_

Not fucking likely.

Besides, as much as I'd like to pretend that Tanya's accusation was the only reason that I'd ever picked on the Izzy of yesteryear, that was bullshit. Izzy was _different_. She didn't fit in.

Oh sure, teachers had role playing games to teach us how to turn down drugs, but where were they when the temptation to put someone down was _just sitting there_? Like a bottle of Jack to an alcoholic. There were times when my hands might as well have been shaking with the desire to let the words come tumbling out of my mouth.

And I wasn't even doing it because I wanted to _hurt_ a person, or so I told myself at the time. I was just noting the obvious. It wasn't my fault that everyone was so fucking sensitive.

And thus, ladies and gentlemen, is a monster fucking born.

Whenever I chose to reflect on the issue—because I wasn't completely un-self-aware—I blamed my parents. They gave me everything that I wanted except the things that I really wanted. As if that was a fucking excuse.

I blamed the fact that school and music and sports were always so easy. I was bored and had to find a way to fill the time. What a fucking joke.

Assholery was not an inevitable condition, I knew that. It was a conscious decision. I suspected that there were people who had everything and still weren't assholes.

But again it's like alcoholism. There's a point at which the decision to have another drink ceases to become a choice and becomes an addiction. Your body's chemistry changes. You _need_ that next drink.

So maybe you're a jerk once or twice, and there're no negative ramifications. And there's a serotonin spike because people thought you were funny and you feel like the king of the mountain for a few minutes. So you do it again. And again. And again. And again. Until it's what you do.

Which begs the question—why even start? Kids will be kids, right? Playgrounds aren't the United Nations. Words spill out. You say things because they're funny. Because you want to win.

And there I was, dreaming that I was back on a playground and that fucker Newton was annoying me—I couldn't even remember how—so I got him back, pointing out that he looked like a backwoods hick, dressed in his parents' clearance rack knockoffs. "You got roadkill in your lunchbox?" I asked. "Keep the dead squirrel away from me." And everyone had laughed. I'd felt like a king.

The day after I came back from Forks with Bella, I had to treat a kid who'd been stabbed in the throat with a pencil. He'd been bullying his stabber for years.

I dreamt that I was sitting in my parents' kitchen again. The police had just dropped the charges and my mother was pestering me. She just wouldn't leave it alone. She wanted to go and see Bella to thank her for coming forward. "You can't," I said, but she wasn't buying it.

She switched tactics. "Why didn't Isabella come forward any sooner?" she asked, as if we had a right to be pissed that Izzy had taken so long.

I snorted. "I'm lucky she came forward at all."

"What do you mean?"

I tried to brush it off at first but she wouldn't drop it. "I picked on her," I said at last, shrugging.

"What do you mean? You _picked_ _on_ her?" My mother shook her head. "You mean like children."

I laughed, still half out of my mind with the stress of the last few weeks, still not completely convinced that the police weren't going to show up at my door again with handcuffs. "I _picked on_ her. Made fun of her. Went out of my way to humiliate her. Every day."

"I don't understand," my mother said. My father wasn't saying anything. Just standing there. Fucking useless.

"Why not? You were willing to believe that I'd murdered my ex-girlfriend."

"Edward—" my father started.

"Fuck you," I snapped. "Always on my back to do exactly what you tell me. Well, I did, didn't I? I've followed all of your fucking instructions, haven't I? And where did it get me?"

"You can put all of this behind you now," my father continued.

I barked out another short burst of laughter, because I really was going out of my fucking head. And I'd thought everything up to that point was a nightmare. No. It was _this_—the weeks of build-up, the certainty that my life was over, only for it all to collapse, leaving me with _this_. What was this? My life? Fuck me.

"It can't have been that bad," my mother argued. "You can't have been that mean to her."

"Errrr. Sorry, that's the _wrong_ answer. I'm afraid that you lose tonight's game." Why was this so fucking hard for her to understand? "

"They were just _words_. I'm sure you never actually hurt her."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Are you really defending me? Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"You never laid a finger on her, did you?" my mother asked, her voice was shaking.

"Of course I didn't."

"Children will be children."

"We're not fucking _children_," I roared. "What happened to all of that bullshit you've been peddling to me my entire life about doing onto others as you would have them do onto you? That was all a lie?"

"Well you don't appear to have paid attention, do you?" my father snarled.

_Good for him_.

"How could you?" my mother whispered, shifting gears.

I shrugged again.

"Are you serious?" my father demanded. "All you can do right now is shrug?"

"We didn't raise you like that," my mother scolded, tears forming in her eyes.

"No, you raised me to be fucking perfect."

My father wasn't having any of that. "Don't you blame us."

"Maybe it was too much living up to your expectations."

"So you talk to us. You take it out on us. You don't pick on some girl."

"Look," I began, "I never touched her. I just made fun of her. I may have made her cry a few times."

Defending myself—even after attacking my mother for trying to defend me—it was instinctual. But they _were_ just words. How much damage could they really have done?

"Like what?" my mother asked. "I want to know exactly what you said to her."

I rolled my eyes. This was ridiculous.

"Tell me," she ordered.

So I told her.

My mother just blinked at me.

"I don't think it even really bothered her," I said, well-aware that I was contradicting myself.

"Then why don't you want your mother to go over there?" my father asked.

"You know, we all have to learn to put up with stuff," I told them. "My friends make fun of me all of the time. You have to learn not to be so sensitive."

"You get made fun of by your _friends_," my father pointed out. "They aren't really making fun of you."

"I don't want you going over there because we're not friends. She did what she had to. She saw me in the woods. She _had_ to come forward. But I don't want you going over there like we owe her something."

My father started in again. "Edward, you know that verbal abuse can have severe psychological effects."

I didn't reply.

"I'm glad that it was never physical, but quite frankly I don't know who you are. Everything you've described, that's kindergarten antics. I thought you were more mature than that."

My mother got up and left the room, not saying a thing. My father followed.

My mother didn't speak to me for two more days. When I couldn't take it at last, I blurted out an apology. "I'm sorry," I told her. "What more do you want?"

"I'm not the one you owe the apology to," she said, not looking at me.

Grateful that she was speaking finally, I told her that I'd tried. I told her about going up to Izzy in the diner. "She won't let me talk to her."

"It's what you deserve."

I stared at my mother. I knew that I was a jerk, but I didn't really see how I deserved _two days_ of the silent treatment. I wasn't a murderer. That had to be good for something. "Mom," I had to clear my throat. "I don't get why it matters so much. She'll get over it. She probably has already."

She looked at me then. "Edward, I love you. But you just don't know what it's like to be constantly judged by something over which you have very little control. You can wear make-up and literally peel the skin from your flesh with chemicals. You can stick your finger down your throat until you damage yourself so badly that you can never have children. You can have breast implants and get silicon poisoning. But you'll still fail to meet _someone's_ standard. Men aren't judged the same way. 36-24-36. The perfect measurements for a woman. What are the perfect measurements for a man? We don't know. Women are the ones who appear on tv half-clothed, five times as often as men do. Women are the ones who are humiliated for aging, while people say that men just get better. If a woman isn't beautiful, she's defective. She's not a woman. She's not a _person_. Can you imagine what it feels like to be told that you're not a person?"

My mouth was hanging open. "But mom, you're beautiful."

"_Isabella's_ beautiful. You don't know a damn thing. And when I think of how my own son treated some girl, all I can think is: _How could you?_ You're vain and selfish. You're a monster. No wonder it was so easy for everyone to believe you murdered Tanya. And as angry as I am at you for all of that, I'm angrier at myself. Because I raised you. So it must be my fault too. And I just keep asking myself what I did wrong."

And I might as well have been back in a jail cell.

I dreamt just that—the clank of metal as the door swung shut. "We know what you did to Bree Tanner," the guard said.

_I'm innocent!_

The guard laughed, spit flying from his lips as he watched me through the bars.

Didn't the last ten years mean anything?

I had changed, and so had Bella.

I dreamt that I was back at Alice's Halloween party. Bella was wearing that fucking cute outfit, looking at everyone and everything but me. If I could just—

But I couldn't afford these bullshit fantasies even in my dreams. I needed to focus on finding Tanya's killer, then I could—I don't know. Work this thing with Bella out.

Maybe.

First though, I had to settle everything from the past. So I'd been wracking my brain ever since the cops' impromptu visit to the ER. Had I missed any signs over the past ten years that I was being stalked?

I didn't think so.

In fact, I had always imagined Tanya's killer doing everything he could to stay the hell away from me, because I might not have loved Tanya, but I was sure as fuck going to destroy the bastard when I found him.

_On the nature of fixation_…

It could have been anyone lying dead in that cabin in the woods. It could have been Bella—

And that image woke me up again. I needed to shut that shit right the fuck down. I knew damn well that the asshole who I was back then wouldn't have given a shit if Bella had died in Tanya's place. I would have put it down as freak on freak violence. The end. I was different now.

I stared at the ceiling, remembering how Tanya's friends had held a candlelight vigil in her honor. I doubted that Bella would have gotten one. If she did, it would have been some bullshit fake show of mourning because no one would have wanted to miss out on the spectacle.

But that wasn't completely true, was it? Bella had friends in La Push. They would have done something. And she had Alice, for whatever that was worth. And she had a father and a mother, though based on what I'd seen and heard of her mother, Bella was better off without her.

Maybe Bella wasn't as functional as she pretended, but neither was I. We were both fucked up. Who wasn't?

She was smart and funny and beautiful—and thinking about that just started another round of thoughts that I knew I'd no business having with her sleeping just down the hall. She'd rip my balls off if she suspected what was running through my head.

But, unable to fall back asleep, I wondered.

Aside from a few one-offs, like the cabin in the woods and that fuckery at the gallery, Bella always acted as if nothing could faze her. As if she just didn't give a shit about anything. I knew that wasn't true, but I wasn't sure just how far that knowledge would get me.

She didn't seem impressed by the things that seemed to attract other women to me. If anything, my looks, my career, my money, everything just seemed to piss her off.

One or two times though, I'd gotten the feeling that there was something more going on between us besides friendship.

But I was also fairly certain that Bella didn't realize that she spent half of her time flirting with me.

Did she just go around flirting with everyone?

_Fuck that._

I punched my pillow and rolled over, checking the clock. It was a quarter to eight in the morning. Later than I'd realized.

Grateful that I didn't have to keep struggling with sleep that just wasn't coming, I jumped up and headed for the study. If Bella wasn't awake yet, I'd send an email to my PI. Ask him to find out the whereabouts of everyone on our list of suspects over the course of the last few weeks. Either this fucker was watching us himself or he had someone else doing it for him.

But to my utter astonishment, when I opened the door to the study, I saw Bella crouched over my desk.

Not only was she awake, she'd found the very last thing that I'd wanted her to see.

I couldn't help the expletive that passed my lips.

Her eyes snapped to mine and she took a step back, almost like she was scared of me.

"Shit," I cursed again. Why hadn't I locked them up? To be honest, I hadn't a fucking clue what to do with them, some of my ideas being by no means PG rated.

"Why the fuck do you have these?" she asked, the incriminating pictures grasped in her shaking hands.

"I bought them."

"You bought them? _You bought them?_"

I swallowed. "Yeah."

"_How_ did you buy them? They were supposed to be on display for at least a month. Seth said that even if someone purchased them, they'd have to stay up for the duration of the exhibition."

I snorted. "I fucking paid him enough to take them down early. That's how the fuck I bought them."

She held the pictures to her chest, a look of sheer agony crossing her face. "You hate them that much? That doesn't even make sense. You bought them just to get them off the walls?"

I couldn't help the burst of laughter. "_Hate _them? Yeah. I hate some guy getting to look at you like that. There was no way in hell that I was leaving those pictures up on that wall."

Bella's mouth fell open as she took another step back. "I don't believe you. This is crazy."

"Crazy?" I laughed again and took a step towards her. Why did she keep backing away from me? "Do you want to know what's crazy? You letting someone take pictures of you like that and then letting them be put up for just anyone to see."

Her face dropped and I could tell that she was taking it the wrong way.

_Not again._ I could see her shutting down again and at the sight of that, I felt something inside of me snap. I was just so fucking tired—physically tired, yes, but tired too of handling her with kid gloves.

"Do you want to know what's crazy?" I repeated, taking another step towards her. "You giving me a hard time because I want to know if you're seeing someone. You fucking flirting with me all of the time and pretending like you don't know that that's just what you're doing." Yeah, I knew I sounded insane but I _felt _insane. Those nightmare images from my dreams hadn't faded and I'd had to deal with one asshole too many over the last few days. Finding Bella with the pictures was the straw that broke the camel's back. I wasn't going to keep playing these fucking games with her. "You giving me shit because you don't like my condo or my car or my job. You being mad at me for shit that happened ten years ago and not letting me apologize or explain." As if I could explain something like that away even if she _was_ willing to give me a chance.

I could feel the energy just rolling off of me in waves, and it occurred to me that I was bullying her again—trying to push her—but I'd spent the last two months doing my damnedest to charm Bella and to win her over with my smirks and my half-assed jokes, trying to seem normal and to make up for everything that I'd done wrong because actions spoke louder than words—or some shit like that—and it had gotten me absolutely nowhere. I was sick of this back and forth.

I stopped when I was standing right in front of her. When she finally raised her face to look at me, I felt my chest clench. The fucking saddest expression that I'd ever seen was gracing her features. "You feel bad about what happened in high school?" she asked softly.

"Yeah of course I do." What the fuck did she think?

"So you bought these pictures to make up for it. You didn't have to. It's fine."

"You just ignored everything the fuck else I said, didn't you?"

She was shaking her head. "I don't understand."

"Damn right you don't." And I kissed her.

It wasn't perfect. She was still clasping those fucking obscene pictures—_my_ fucking obscene pictures—to her chest and her glasses—those cute fucking glasses—were in the way and she didn't do anything to try to make it easy either, like cock her head to the side or anything like that, so I had to just do my best with one hand on the back of her neck and another on her hip.

And it was perfect, because even though Bella wasn't kissing me back _yet_ and her lips were dry and neither one of us had brushed our teeth, _this_ was the kiss that I'd wanted to give Bella on Halloween when I'd left her at her truck—Svengali my ass—and _this_ was the kiss that I'd wanted to give her that morning in the bed and breakfast when she'd admitted to crushing on a guy who'd collected books a thousand years ago—_who the fuck does that?—_and _this_ was the kiss that I'd wanted to give her when she'd stood in my parents' library eyeing the shelves like she wanted to strip and invite the tightly bound volumes to have their wicked way with her.

If books were what it took, then I'd start my collection immediately. I had the feeling that Bella wouldn't be very impressed with my selection of medical textbooks and true crime accounts, but I—

And then I wasn't kissing her anymore.

"What the fuck?" Bella asked, pushing me away as tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.

_What the fuck, indeed_. Last I checked, a woman crying when you kissed her was a bad sign. Very bad.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, wiping at her eyes furiously.

"I—" _What?_ What could I possibly say to fix this?

"Am I just some fucking joke to you?"

"No!" How the fuck could she think that? "I'm sorry." _I should just apologize and forget about it_, I thought. So much for my little fantasies.

"Sorry?! You're sorry? How dare you?"

"I didn't—" Fuck! "I just couldn't help myself."

Bella was looking at me like I was a piece of shit. "Oh, I'm sure that you couldn't help yourself. Ten years. Ten years! And you're still the same. '_I've changed, Bella. I'm not like that anymore, Bella.'_ What a load of shit. You've been playing a game with me this whole time."

"What? No I haven't. Bella, I want to be your friend." _Friend_. What a joke. But I would take it. It wasn't as if I was capable of a functional relationship anyhow.

"If I'm not mistaken, you don't go around kissing friends. You don't try to humiliate them by pretending to be attracted to them."

"I'm not pretending."

She scoffed. "Don't fuck with me. I know you too well."

Could she really be this far off base? "I've wanted you since at least the bed and breakfast."

Bella's eyes widened. "_Wanted _me?" I watched her think about it. "Is it—is it some kind of fetish thing?"

"Fetish?" What the hell was she talking about?

"Fuck the freak?"

"Are you insane?"

She glared at me. "You honestly expect me to believe that you're serious with this?"

"You can't possibly be this stupid." I was going to rip my hair out. Surely she knew. There was no way that she'd misunderstood me so completely. All of the phone calls. That night in the bed and breakfast.

"Maybe I am. Explain it to me so that I can understand."

"Jesus H. Christ—you're constantly going on and on about what an asshole I am, and the only thing that I can think is that it's some self-defense mechanism, like you're afraid of me or something, because then you're sweet as shit, telling me to quit my job in the ER and to stop blaming myself for Tanya's death. So here I am thinking that maybe you'll give me a chance when you have no intention of doing so."

"Give you a chance for what?"

"_This!_" I roared, gesturing between the two of us. "You and me."

She swallowed, and I thought maybe my idea about her being afraid was right, because she had a look of abject terror on her face. "You and me? Like _together_?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else.

"That's," her voice failed and she had to start again. "That's just—it's grotesque."

_Grotesque_. Well shit.

I fucking disgusted her. She couldn't even bring herself to imagine herself with me.

Well, wasn't that just great? I'd finally found someone who didn't look at me like I was just a pretty face or, once they knew me a little better, a serial killer—someone who saw _me_, a fuck up, yeah, but not a complete fuck up—and she thought that I was repulsive.

So I was standing there in front of her, trying to figure out how to salvage the situation, when really it felt like she'd just ripped out my heart—which was absurd because we'd only kissed the one time and she hadn't even kissed me back—yet there I was, my chest aching where my heart used to be and my legs feeling like they were about to give out, because I had the overwhelming urge to fall to my knees and start begging, just fucking beg her to give me a chance.

Which was when I heard the buzzer sounding from downstairs.

Who the fuck was bothering me now, of all times?

I didn't know if I should feel grateful or pissed at whoever the fuck was downstairs. Then it occurred to me that it was just a ruse and that Tanya's killer would be at the door when I opened it—the visual set my heart racing, so at least I knew that the thing hadn't been ripped out of my chest after all.

I cast a weary glance at Bella, but she had her eyes on the floor again, hiding—_of course_—those motherfucking pictures still in her hands. So I left her in the study to find out who was downstairs, only to learn that it was Jasper.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Let me up," he said.

I wanted to tell him to fuck off but I buzzed him through and stood there for a minute with my eyes closed, trying to calm down. What the fuck was I going to do with Bella now?

By the time Jasper that got to the door, Bella had joined me—refusing to meet my eye, naturally—the pictures no longer in her hands, so either she'd put them back in my desk where she'd found them, which I highly doubted, or she'd taken them to her room because God forbid she should let me keep them. I could just see myself, getting drunk and whacking off to them like the fucking creeper that I'd clearly become.

Dragging my thoughts out of the gutter, I forced myself pay attention to Jasper and was pissed to see that he had brought Alice along. Bella didn't need her bullshit right now. I was about to tell Jasper to take his girlfriend and go, but Bella didn't seem upset to see Alice and, before I could say a word, the two of them disappeared back into Bella's room.

"You look like shit," Jasper said to me, throwing himself down on my couch.

"Fucking tell me about it," slumping into a chair.

"Did something new happen?"

I looked at him for a minute. "With the asshole who's stalking Bella you mean? No. There's nothing new with that."

"Then what the fuck? Because you were upset yesterday, but you didn't look this bad."

I glanced in the direction that Bella had gone. "I fucked up."

"With Bella?"

I nodded.

"What's going on there?" he asked.

"A lot of nothing."

"Why? You like her don't you?"

I didn't think that deserved an answer.

Jasper kicked my shin. "Pussy."

Yeah, there was no fucking way that I was going there with Jasper. Instead, I updated him on everything that had happened with the police. He wasn't in the least bit shy about telling me that I was a fucking idiot and that I was lucky that I wasn't dead.

"You could have gotten Bella killed," he said. Like I needed to hear that right now.

He wanted to know why I hadn't been keeping him abreast with developments. He actually used the word "abreast."

I reminded him that he was a fucking asshole who, on more than one occasion, had accused me of being obsessed, having made it very clear that he didn't want to hear any more about my search for Tanya's killer.

Jasper admitted that he might have been an asshole, but did nothing to retract his statements regarding my obsessive tendencies.

Bella emerged then, freshly showered and dressed. I was shocked to see that she had her messenger bag slung over a shoulder. Where the hell did she think she was going? Annoyed, I glared at Alice, who had followed Bella out and was looking way too fucking animated for me. I stayed where I was sitting, just knowing that some new fuckery was about to unfold.

"Jacob just called," Bella explained, not looking at me. "They have an inventory of everything they found in my office. They want me to go through it and see if anything's missing."

I opened my mouth to say that I would take her down to the station when the fucking pixie cut me off.

"I told her that we'd take her," Alice chirped. "We can, right Jasper?"

Jasper gazed at me. _Tell her to fuck off, _I tried to tell him with my eyes.

"Sure," he said.

Prick. What the fuck was the use of having a friend your entire life if the son of a bitch couldn't read your mind?

"I've got a class this afternoon," Bella said. "I need to go to the university after the station." She was wringing her hands, anxious, but there was no need for her to worry. I could take her to the university.

Except that Jasper shut that down too. "I've got a class this afternoon, too. I'll wait around for you to get done at the station, then take you over."

I was going to punch Jasper in the fucking jaw. He could read my mind alright; he was just doing the opposite of everything that I wanted.

"Great!" the pixie clapped her hands together. If she didn't stop with the chirping I was going to toss glitter at her.

Bella turned towards me, finally meeting my eyes, her gaze nervous. "Edward, you're going to be okay, right?"

_Excuse me?_ I wasn't the one being stalked by a serial killer.

Unless she meant that she thought I was going to throw myself off the fucking roof just because she didn't want to have anything to do with me.

"I mean," she rushed to clarify, "you don't have to work today so you're not going to go anywhere are you? Whoever this is, he could come after you too. I think that you should just stay here and I'll come back here tonight. And then we'll figure out what to do next. Maybe Jacob is right. Maybe we should both leave town."

She was worried about me getting hurt? Maybe she should have thought about that before ripping out my heart.

Because I was an asshole, I smirked at her. The same smirk that got me all of the ladies.

Well, it _used_ to get me all of the ladies. "I'll be fine. Just going to stay right here." I tapped my seat cushion, still not bothering to stand up.

"Good." Her eyes darted from my face to the ground and back again.

I didn't know what she was so damned nervous about. I would be just fine. _Right._

And before I could stand up or think of something to say—like _Maybe you should take today off_ or _Let me go with you _or _Will you be my valentine?_—they were gone.

Leaving me to wonder what the fuck had just happened.

Maybe I was still asleep. Maybe this was just another twisted nightmare.

_I wish_.

Had I really just fucked up my relationship with Bella even more? Who would have thought such a thing was even possible?

As if that wasn't enough, I'd just let her walk out of here with a serial killer on her tail.

And what was I doing about it? I was sitting here in my apartment, not doing a damn thing, feeling sorry for myself, with nothing to comfort me but a set of scrapbooks that I'd made for a girl who had been dead for ten years.

I forced myself to get up and shower, telling myself that Bella would be just fine with that fucker Jasper.

And so what if Bella didn't want me? The important thing was that the police were going to catch Tanya's killer,_ at last_, and people would stop looking at me like I was a monster and I'd find a woman…a woman who looked at me like I was just a paycheck with a nice jawline.

I wanted to punch something.

What I really wanted to do was talk to Bella, but that probably wasn't a good idea in my current state of mind. So, hoping to find something useful, I went back to my study and opened my laptop to see if I could find anything useful about Bree Tanner's murder.

Checking my email, I found a response from my contact at the _Port Angeles_ _Times_. I'd contacted him the previous day after that fuckery at Bella's office, asking him to send me the color version of the picture that Bella had emailed to me on Sunday night. He'd found it—pretty quickly, I was happy to see—and sent it along. So I found myself staring at a color picture of that waitress from _Bella Italia_ standing in the middle of the restaurant, the wall behind her literally covered in children's drawings. I'd eaten there a few times before Tanya's death and I remembered how the manager used to take the pictures that kids drew on the back of their placemats and hang them up. A lot of restaurants did things like that, so that wasn't what drew my attention.

The thing that really interested me was the drawing of a blonde standing next to a gray Volvo driven by a redhead.

I'd never driven the Volvo to Port Angeles. I had only gotten the car in May, as a graduation present, and I'd never taken it outside of Forks. So there was no way that some kid eating dinner in _Bella Italia_ had seen me and Tanya together in that car in Port Angeles.

I told myself not to get carried away. Whoever this kid was, maybe he was just drawing something that he'd seen in Forks.

Except that the OCD little fucker had even included the lintel on the building across the street from the restaurant. No one mixes and matches stuff like that unless they're crazy. And what were the chances that some schizoid savant kid ate dinner in the same restaurant where a redhead just happened to pick up a blonde in a silver Volvo before killing her?

But why hadn't anyone connected the drawing with Tanya before this? Was everyone so fixated on the waitress' testimony that they'd overlooked something this obvious?

I fucked around with the photo on my laptop, zooming in here and there, trying to find some crucial detail that would blow this case wide open. It was a longshot, I knew.

Which was why I almost didn't believe it when I found it.

The day before Tanya was killed, that fucker Eric Yorkie had keyed my Volvo. I couldn't prove it was him, but I knew he was the one. I had left my car parked at the Thrift N'Save while I was inside, and had come out to find Yorkie crouched in front of my car. I yelled but he was climbing onto his fucking bicycle and pedaling away like a motherfucker before I could catch sight of what was written on my car.

He'd only gotten as far as "FA" when he'd had to stop because I was coming.

And the kid at _Bella Italia_ had drawn a "FA" on that car in his picture. The letters were pretty faint. Almost invisible. But they were there.

Of course I'd considered the possibility that someone had stolen my car, but the Volvo showed no evidence of having been broken into or of even being driven that day. Once the police had decided that I wasn't the killer, they'd concentrated on looking for other silver Volvos in the area around that time. They had never taken seriously the idea that someone was setting me up—who would frame an eighteen year old for murder?—but they had at least tried to find someone who matched my description and had access to a similar car. I'd taken the same approach, looking for another silver Volvo. It was just hard for me to believe that someone could have stolen the Volvo and returned it without me knowing about it.

Besides, to set me up, the killer needed to be sure that I wouldn't have an alibi. Just because I wasn't at that fucking party, didn't mean that I wouldn't have one.

And how did the killer know that the Volvo would be just sitting in my driveway? How did they know that I wouldn't be around that afternoon to notice that it was stolen? How did they get into it without leaving any signs that it had been broken into?

_James. _

Fuck my life.

He'd called, trying to get me to go to the party, and I'd told him how I was going hiking. He knew that my parents were leaving town.

James knew that I was liable to be gone for the rest of the day, especially considering how pissed I was at my parents. He knew that I liked to just fucking disappear in the woods.

And James knew where we kept the spare key to the front door of the house, under a planter on the porch. He just had to unlock the door and go up to my room to find the keys to my car, because of course I wouldn't have taken them along on a hike.

James had an alibi though. He was at First Beach and those goddamned photos from Bella's attic proved it.

But had James told someone that I was going hiking? Had the police questioned James about that?

They must have. I'd told them all about James' phone call. They must have realized that he was the only one who knew that I wouldn't have an alibi.

I'd always figured that the police had questioned James about the call, and that he'd denied telling anyone. I'd never had a reason to question James. Even after he was arrested for drug dealing, I assumed that he'd fallen apart _after_ we left Forks. It never crossed my mind that his betrayals could stretch back so far in time.

Going back through those photos from First Beach that Bella had found, I looked for what _wasn't there_. The person who should have been there and wasn't.

It took me an hour. And when I found it, or rather, when I realized what I wasn't finding, I felt like a fucking idiot.

Because of course no one had noticed that she was missing. She wasn't a student. She wasn't from Forks or La Push or Port Angeles. She had just shown up one day a few months before graduation, a couple of years older than the rest of us, living in a motel with no visible means of support and latching on to us for some reason. I knew that she'd hooked up with James but I didn't realized how serious their relationship was until she followed us to Dartmouth. She'd been _everywhere_ with James for a while after that, like his fucking shadow.

It wasn't until James was arrested that I realized she wore a wig. She attacked me when the cops showed up, screaming and clawing and biting. Garrett had to pull her off of me, ripping off her raven-haired wig in the process to reveal a mane of fiery red locks, just a couple of shades off from my own. Even then, I didn't put it together. I was so fucking messed up in my own head, I couldn't put two and two together.

Chills ran down my spine. I'd practically _lived_ with her. How had I missed this?

And why hadn't someone else suspected her?

Was it just because no one thought that a woman was capable of killing Tanya like that? The absence of evidence for a sexual assault ought to have been a clue as to the killer's gender, but it wasn't proof in and of itself.

Then I remembered something else.

When everything went down with James and the drugs, the police had questioned me about Maria, trying to connect her to James' criminal activities, but I couldn't tell them anything.

"Did you know that _Maria_'s an alias?" they'd asked me. "Her real name's Victoria."

Why was that name familiar to me?

Grabbing my cell, I called that tool Jacob, happy that I'd gotten his number the day before. No way was I talking to the dickheads who'd questioned me on Sunday. I wanted someone who actually gave a fuck if Bella lived to see another day.

Never mind that I kind of wanted to punch him in the face for taking such an avid interest in her.

As if a tool like him had a chance with someone like Bella.

_Did he have a chance?_

"What do you want Cullen?" he barked. So fucking cordial.

"Just to give you the name of the goddamned killer," I said.

"Are you screwing with me?"

"Her name's Victoria something. She used to date this asshole that went to high school with us in Forks. He got arrested for drug dealing when we were at Dartmouth together. His name is James Hunter. He's still in jail, I think, but I haven't the slightest idea where she is."

"What makes you think she's the one?"

"Red hair. Crazy bitch. Wasn't at First Beach with everyone else when Tanya was killed. James knew that I would be in the woods that afternoon and that my car would just be sitting there. He knew how to get to the keys."

"That it?"

"Besides doing your job for you? Yeah, some kid drew a picture of the Volvo picking Tanya up. It was _my _car. There's no way it was someone else's. I'm sending you the link now."

"How is it that no one thought of this Victoria chick before now?"

"She wasn't a redhead when Tanya died. She wore a black wig. As for the rest, I know for a fact that James told me that she was on the beach with him all day. But the police had pictures of the beach at the time of the murder and she isn't in them."

"Why'd she do it?"

"How the fuck should I know? She was crazy. Isn't that enough?"

"For all you know, the police did look into her and decided that she was innocent."

_Fuck that_. "So you're just going to sit on this?"

There was a pause. "You know, technically this isn't my case," Jacob cautioned.

"That isn't the vibe that you were throwing off yesterday."

"We're family friends."

Fucking guys from La Push always giving me a hard time.

Jacob took mercy on me. "I'll look into it."

"Good."

"In the meantime, you stay put."

"I'm going to pick up Bella at the university first."

"So long as the two of you stop trying to do our job."

Wouldn't have to if they could just get it right. "As far as I'm concerned, this case is solved." It was Victoria. I _knew_ it.

Jacob signed off—asshole—and I called Bella. _Pick up goddamn it._

"Edward?"

_Thank God._

"Bella, listen I know that Jasper could probably give you a ride back here but I just really need to see you. Well you wait for me to pick you up?"

She hesitated. _Come on!_ "Sure. Jasper is still in his lecture, so I've just been waiting for him to finish."

"Where are you right now?" I was already headed for the door.

"In front of the main office. The parking lot's just outside. I'll be able to see you pull up and there're plenty of people around."

I promised to be there in fifteen minutes and hung up.

Rushing out the door, I bounced on my feet, anxious for the elevator. It took forever to arrive and took just as long to get me down to the garage. I was preoccupied, annoyed by the delay and anxious to see Bella.

Which was why I didn't notice the bastard behind the van until the tire iron hit the side of my skull.

**AN: ****Is Edward right about Maria?**

**I admit, this nonsense with the drawing and the failure to connect Maria/Victoria's real hair color to the murder is flimsy, which is why the genre is listed as Drama first and Mystery second. Also, I cheated, withholding clues…unless of course Maria/Victoria isn't really the killer after all. **

**For those who would like a reminder: **

**Leah: "…James. He was the worst. I thought it was bad enough when it was just him and Cullen and that butt-buddy of theirs, but the three of them were nothing compared to James and that girl he started bringing around… She wasn't from Forks. I'd never seen her before, and I never saw her after that summer either. Black Irish…[her name was] Mary or something like that…."**

**Edward: "He was always having these wild parties and his girlfriend, Maria, was there **_**all**_** of the time. Bitch had fucking followed us from Forks…His bitch girlfriend even attacked me."**

**Rec: The Five Stages of Grief Are Not Linear by Wooden Tulips **AU/AH/OOC Bella, Jasper, and Emmett's father dies. Bella comes home to Forks to take care of younger brother Jasper until arrangements can be made. Family friend Edward steps in to help. M for language and a couple lemons...Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Family - Bella, Edward - Chapters: 31 - Words: 82,488 - Reviews: 284 - Favs: 304 - Follows: 126 - Updated: Oct 31, 2009 - Published: Sep 22, 2009 - Status: Complete - id: 5395415


	25. Chapter 25

**Thanks for reading! Special thanks for the advice on revising the tone of this chapter to BelleBiter, LRK860, and CindyWindy1.**

**Meyer owns all.**

**Sorry, we're back to BPOV. **

Chapter 21

'_That is the picture of a wretched ancestress of mine, of whose crimes a black and fearful catalogue is recorded in a family history in my charter-chest. The recital of them would be too horrible; it is enough to say, that in yon fatal apartment incest and unnatural murder were committed.' – Sir Walter Scott _

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_ (well, the last time we were inside Bella's head), our heroine had just come across certain pictures inside our hero's desk._

Up was down and down was up. It was a topsy-turvy world and I was the spinning top.

There was no other way to explain the madness that had ensued after I opened that last drawer in Edward's desk.

_He had the pictures from the gallery!_

And then Edward…and then Edward himself was suddenly standing in the study before me, spewing nonsense and expecting me to believe it.

And then…

And then he had _kissed _me.

_What the fuck was that?_

Not to mention everything he'd said after that.

It was ludicrous. I had spent the several few days going over all of the reasons why the very thing which Edward was now suggesting was utterly inconceivable. If nothing else, the disaster at the gallery had proven that.

…except that he'd purchased the very pictures that lay at the heart of that disaster.

Was it possible that I'd misunderstood Edward's response in the gallery? Was his disgust born solely from the fact that the images were public?

The entire thing had the air of a teenaged farce. The prom king feigns attraction for the town freak in a ploy to humiliate her. What a juvenile plot.

It was mind-boggling. It was incongruous. There could never be anything between us.

So why did Edward look as if I'd ripped out his heart when I said as much?

Thank God Jasper and Alice had decided to make an appearance. I needed to get away from Edward before things escalated.

_Escalated?_ Dear God, how much further could they have gone?

I sat in the backseat of Jasper's Mustang, remembering how Edward's lips had felt against my own.

It was confusing, yes. Exhilarating, yes. My skin hummed.

Hummed.

I didn't feel sick with revulsion, as I would have expected.

I felt alive.

I wasn't filled with the old desire to claw the skin from my body.

I felt giddy.

Not dead. Not numb—there was none of the chill lifelessness that had always been a counterpart to those feelings of revulsion in the past.

It was frightening, yes. But so what? Would I be subject to fear? Onto the breach and all that.

Except that Edward had all but admitted that he was acting out of guilt. He felt bad about what had happened during high school and he wanted to fix what he'd done—save me—because he could see that I was broken and believed that he had a hand in breaking me. It was pity that moved him. Pity and maybe the hope that, by redeeming me, he could redeem himself. Good works ensuring the salvation of a soul tainted by the suspicion of murder.

I couldn't let him use me like that. It would hurt too much when he decided that he was done paying his penance and tossed me aside. Besides, I couldn't even bring myself to picture the interim period of faux ardor. I might have felt things that I'd never felt before when Edward kissed me. But that didn't mean that I was capable of functioning in a relationship.

And the thought of that brought me up short. What was I doing even thinking about this? Did this mean that I _wanted_ a relationship?

Alice interrupted my thoughts to bid me farewell. "I could come to the station with you, if you need me to," she said, looking at me hopefully over the back of the passenger's seat.

"I'll be fine," I told her, and I meant it. I couldn't deal with her right now on top of Edward. I couldn't afford to rely on either one of them. Not when I knew that they'd only fail me in the end.

I averted my eyes as Alice and Jasper shared a brief kiss, and then she was out the door and darting through the entrance of her boutique.

"Do you want to move up to the front?" Jasper asked awkwardly, gazing at me in the rearview mirror.

I wanted to stay where I was. I wanted to be left alone. Not talk to anyone.

But I knew that wouldn't work. So I moved up to the front and sat in awkward silence.

"Edward didn't look good this morning," Jasper said after a minute.

This was an excellent topic: _The Idiosyncrasies of One Edward Cullen_. Perhaps Jasper wasn't a complete idiot. I would pretend that Edward's demeanor had everything to do with his stress over a decade-old murder and nothing at all to do with me and a certain set of photos.

_Surely Edward hadn't said anything to Jasper about me!_

"He blames himself," I replied cautiously, though I was fairly certain that I felt far more responsible for Bree's death than Edward did. But Jasper's response took me by surprise.

"I almost want to be mad at you but that's not fair," Jasper said with a tone of resignation.

My eyes shot to his face in surprise but his gaze was on the road.

He glanced at me. "I don't mean it like that. I know Edward's the one who got you involved. I just want him to be done with this whole mess and get on with his life."

"It's not as if his life is exactly on hold," I replied after reflecting for a minute. After all, that was true, wasn't it? Had Edward really changed? _Aside from in every way that is?_ I shook my head. He _had_ changed. I couldn't deny that, as much as I wanted to, but I kept on trying to convince myself nonetheless. "Edward went to Dartmouth. He has a successful career."

Jasper snorted. "Before all of this happened with Tanya, Edward wanted to be a plastic surgeon. Big bucks and vacations in Aspen. A big _fuck you_ to his parents because he couldn't go to Julliard."

"So you want him to be a plastic surgeon?" I asked, confused because if Edward's best friend thought that he had changed than he must have. And if Jasper really just wanted his wingman back, that didn't bode well for Alice.

"Do you realize how often he talks about Tanya? He doesn't have time for a game of basketball with his friends or dinner with his family, but he has time to talk to PIs about cases that he thinks the police have fucked up. Shit that's not even remotely related to Tanya's murder, but Edward's so desperate to make some headway with Tanya's killer that he makes up conspiracy theory crap that only Dan Brown would try to peddle."

I knew that Edward and Marcus were looking into other cases, but was it really as bad as Jasper was implying?

Jasper wasn't through. "When Edward does make time, because it's Thanksgiving or someone is getting married and he can't blow it off, all he wants to talk about is new forensic techniques and whether or not he can get the police to look into a new lead that he thinks he's found. I've barely seen the guy since we left for college, which I understand, we were in different states, but every time I did see him, it was like he was just getting worse and worse. I wanted to blame that asshole James, but even with him out of the picture, the situation deteriorated. I thought that with me moving to Seattle, with the two of us being in the same city, it would pull Edward out of this rut. But that happy hour that you organized was the first time that I was able to get Edward out to a bar. He only went because I told him that you were going to be there. I know for a fact that he's spent more time with you in the last two months than he has with me in the last two years."

I wasn't sure how to take all of this. Was Jasper jealous? Did he blame me for enabling Edward's obsession? "You want him to be more like his old self?" I asked. "The way he was in high school?" The thought sickened me. And I realized then that no matter what I said, Edward _had_ changed. And I _liked _the new Edward, as much as it terrified me to admit it.

"I miss my friend. I'm not saying this to you because I blame you, despite what it probably sounds like. To tell you the truth, Edward has smiled more the few times that I've seen you together recently than I've seen him smile in the last ten years combined."

"Maybe he is happy because he thinks he's getting closer to solving the murder." I tried to be logical, ignoring the implications of Jasper's suggestion. _Edward _kissed _you, _I remembered. _It must mean something._

Jasper spared me a glance as he paused at a stop sign. "I don't think that's the case."

"Well then maybe he just appreciates having you around more often. Now that you're both living in the same city."

Jasper laughed. "I don't think it's that either."

I was at a loss. If it was true—if what Jasper was saying was true—and if the kiss really meant something, then I didn't know what it meant for me, but what did it mean for Jasper? "Is it really so bad? Edward changing, I mean. I know that you're worried that he's become obsessive, but other than that, aren't we supposed to be different now? We've grown up. Alice says that you've changed too."

"Of course we've changed. You don't think that I'm the same guy you went to high school with, do you?"

I didn't answer.

Jasper grunted at my silence. "Well, I'm not. I was a prick then but Alice has forgiven me. I just wish that I'd seen then what I see now."

"What do you see now?"

"Alice."

What could I say to that? Alice's relationship with Jasper seemed utterly strange to me—too peculiar to fathom. It wasn't for me to pass judgment.

"You're not going to threaten me?" Jasper asked.

"Why would I threaten you?"

"You know, tell me that if I hurt her you'll rip off my balls or something."

"I'm not a very violent person." If he was going to hurt her, then there was nothing that I could do to stop it.

"I'm not going to. Hurt her, I mean."

"Oh. Okay." This was uncharted territory for me. Alice's boyfriends had never bothered seeking my approval before. "That's good."

"You don't seem very worried." Jasper sounded almost critical, as if my failure to threaten his genitalia demonstrated a failing on my part.

"Alice makes her own decisions," I told him. _And I pick up the pieces_, I thought to myself.

"You didn't try to warn her away from me?"

"I did."

"But I know that you're the one who told her to come to that first happy hour. You knew that I'd be there."

"I might not agree with her choices, but I support her in them." Which was a lie. I'd stopped giving a damn a long time ago. I'd make sure that she was alright physically, but beyond that—

"Unlike me. I don't support Edward."

I hadn't thought about it like that. "It's not for me to say."

"I know you've dealt with a lot from Alice over the years and I want you to know that I'll be there for her from now on. It's not the same thing with Edward. He chose this. Alice didn't choose her problems."

"Doesn't that make Edward's behavior all the more—" I struggled for a word—"noble?" It was a reach perhaps, but Edward's decision to take responsibility for finding Tanya's murderer did have a kind of nobility about it. A courage.

"It's psychosis."

"Then how is he different from Alice?" I asked, not because I looked down on Alice—I knew it was just her condition—but because I wanted Jasper to explain what he meant about Edward.

But Jasper just shook his head.

By then, we'd arrived at the police station and Jasper was parking.

"You should just go to the university," I started to tell him. "You don't have to—"

He stopped me. "Alice would kill me if I left you," he said. "If Edward didn't get to me first. It's not an imposition, I promise."

True to his word, Jasper escorted me inside and sat down on one of the benches near the entrance to wait.

Jacob was expecting me, and I was grateful to see him, as Detectives 1 and 2 were hardly my favorite people at this point. The detectives did insist on joining us, however, while I went over a file containing the inventory of items that had been found in my office, page after page of book titles and pamphlets and student-written essays.

_Vathek_

_Lenore_

_The Horrors of Oakendale Abbey _

_Gaspard de la nuit_

_Horrid Mysteries_

_Justine_

A Miss Carmichael's unoriginal exposition on Radcliffe's feminist rhetoric.

_Vampyr_

_The Devil's Elixir_

_The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner_

_Là-Bas_

_Coelina_

_The Necromancer_

A Mr. Washington's enervating discourse on the eccentricities of the Brontes.

_The Monk_

_The Sorrows of Satan_

_The Beetle_

_Melmoth the Wanderer_

_The Castle of Wolfenbach_

A clutch of essays on _The Cheese and the Worms._

_Berenice_

_Nightmare Abbey_

_The Manuscript found in Saragossa_

_The Bliss of Madness_

_The Castle of Otranto_

_Wagner the Wehr-wolf_

A Miss Stevenson's fascinating digression on the architectural fancies of M. R. James.

_The Old English Baron_

_The Ghost-Seer_

_The Foundling_

_Unexpected Guests_

_Ludmilla_

And so on and so forth.

It was a far cry from the time that I'd sat in Edward's apartment, going over the evidence he'd collected. There were no photos of blood-stained cabins or abandoned warehouses. No stills from the morgue or autopsy reports.

There was no reason for the sense of despair that was steadily overwhelming me as I read over the names of all of the books that had been destroyed. Victims of a cruel slayer.

_And thus all her happyness doth wane._

I told myself that it was just because my nerves were shot. That the stress of finding those pictures and then Edward's behavior was too much.

But I could tell that the detectives wanted to tell me that they were _just _books.

And I couldn't deny that I was making a spectacle of myself, unable to restrain my quiet groans as I read over the list of violated tomes.

The list wasn't as awful, of course, as a girl lying dead of blood loss. I knew that. But it was, in its own way, grotesque.

_Just books. Ha! _

Just poetry and sensibility and reason and the outline of sublime sentiments not much appreciated in the waking world, where the sick absurdity of a murdered girl, too, could be made bearable perhaps, thanks to a line from Montaigne or a sonnet by Corelli.

I knew that there was no way to explain it, so I didn't bother trying.

"You have to understand that I just own so many books. And pamphlets and booklets." I sighed, ignoring the way Detective 2 rolled his eyes. "It's almost impossible for me to tell you whether or not something's missing. Especially as I haven't had a chance to check my books at home to see what I might have left there."

Detective 1 was understandably impatient for results. "Well we need you to do that ASAP."

"I have a class to teach this afternoon, but I can go home after that."

"You're not going alone, are you?" Jacob asked.

I knew that Edward wouldn't want me to go off on my own, but how long were we really going to carry on this _Guarding Bella_ nonsense? I might have told Edward that we ought to consider leaving town, but I hadn't been entirely serious.

Indeed, I couldn't see how any of this was going to play out. The Lifetime movie that I'd pictured myself in when Edward proposed that I help him find Tanya's killer wasn't meant to turn out with me in the starring role. I was just a bit character relegated to the first act. Why did it seem like I was the only one who knew that?

"I'll take someone with me," I told Jacob.

"If you see anything suspicious, or you need an officer to accompany you, make sure that you call me," Jacob advised, as Detectives 1 and 2 were clearly not inclined to volunteer for babysitting.

I was just grateful that no one seemed to deem police protection warranted. I couldn't have born that kind of attention.

"Don't make me call Charlie," Jacob warned.

I was loath to involve my father. It had been all I could do to convince Charlie not to drive up to Seattle when I'd spoken to him on the phone from the backseat of Jasper's Mustang that morning.

Promising Jacob that I would stay well out of danger, I cast one last glance at the sad list of ruined books, and paused.

_Hmmm. _

Flipping through the inventory again, I made sure that I hadn't accidentally overlooked them.

No, they weren't there.

"The letters aren't here," I said.

"What letters?" Detective 2 asked, his interest finally piqued.

"About once a month for the last two years, I've received a letter through my publisher. I think that they're coming from the same person. I sometimes get other letters through my publisher, but the ones that I'm talking about are different. There's never a return address and they're always on the same kind of paper."

"That doesn't sound like—" Detective 2 started.

I cut him off. "It's a single sheet of paper with a typed line of text copied from a book—all of them books mentioned in my own book—with a pressed flower folded inside of the paper. I kept all of the letters together. They were sitting on one of the bookshelves in my office."

That seemed to shut Detective 2 up. With Detective 1 taking notes, I proceeded to tell them everything that I could remember about the letters. The date of receipt, the quality of the paper, and any distinguishing marks that I could recall about the typeset.

I began reciting the few quotations that I could remember from the letters and Detective 2 interrupted.

"Why would anyone want to read about that?" Detective 2 asked, the disgust plain in his tone.

Ignoring him, I continued, Googling the precise wording on my cell phone:

'_Ask what you please, and I will tell you everything. But my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness.' – Sheridan LeFanu_

'_The strangeness of the figure, and its being so close akin to his own nature, attracted him.' – Bram Stoker_

'_There is salvation for the repentant man, but none for me!' – George W. M. Reynolds_

'_Sensuous hopes trampled upon; visionary joys despised. There is no future gladness. Destiny works. What are we more than a handful of faded leaves tossed by the early winter wind?' – R. Murray Gilchrist_

'_When once sordid interest seizes upon the heart, it freezes up the source of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue and to taste—_this_ it perverts and _that_ it annihilates.' – Ann Radcliffe_

'_To terror succeeded a languor and lassitude not without charm—passivity, acquiescence, indulgence—he felt, as it were, the strong caress of another will flowing over him like water and clothing him with invisible hands in an impalpable garment.' – Count Stenbock_

'_I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good.' – Robert Louis Stevenson_

'_I looked back on my bypast life with pain, as one looks back on a perilous journey, in which he has attained his end, without gaining any advantage either to himself, or others; and I looked forward, as on a darksome waste, full of repulsive and terrific shapes, pitfalls, and precipice.' – James Hogg _

The detectives asked if I could hazard a guess as to why someone would be sending me these quotations in particular, and I had to admit that I could not.

_Why hadn't I reported the letters before?_ they asked, and I could only say that I'd never taken the messages seriously, thinking that they were a prank or the work of a lonely dilettante scholar. It wasn't as if I'd ever felt threatened.

_Didn't I think that they might be connected to the animals left on my doorstep?_ There had been no reason for me to see a link. The letters had been coming for two years. The animals had only just begun to appear.

_Could there be a message behind the selection of quotations?_ I replied that the police must surely know more about modern methods of decipherment than me, but perhaps some traditional method of cryptography was in play. A common form of cipher, for instance, might have been used, with the letters directing the reader to the particular page numbers on which the quotations appeared in the volumes listed in my book, with the first letter of each page spelling out a message. But I had to check the volumes in question to be sure.

_Had I ever told Edward about the letters?_ I'd only told Alice and Seth, as a joke. I hadn't even told Angela. Seth had congratulated me on having a fan.

_Why did I think that the letters had been stolen?_ I shrugged my shoulders. Oh, I had some wild notions, but I didn't want to admit, for instance, that I found myself wondering if the sender was in fact stalking me, and had lashed out when he saw that I was associating with Edward. That scenario was too melodramatic, too arrogant, for me to voice. _To think that anyone could care that much for me._ Instead, I said that maybe the disappearance of the letters was completely unrelated, the vandal breaking into my office—no, I didn't know why anyone would want to do such a thing—and coming across the letters by accident, he had taken them away, either out of curiosity or intentionally hoping to create confusion while the police scrambled to find a nonexistent connection between the missives and Bree's murder.

I felt foolish in the extreme, voicing this theory aloud. Even this relatively mild suggestion was the stuff of lurid, Gothic trash, the very literature from which the letters quoted. Undoubtedly, the police could formulate far more probable explanations than I ever could.

An hour later, I was on my way back to the university with Jasper. I had given the detectives as many of the quotations as possible, but the list was by no means complete. I was racking my brain for the ones I had forgotten. Jasper did his best to help but stalled after suggesting Louisa May Alcott, the southern contingent being as far as it seemed he'd gotten in the type of literature involved.

Jasper urged me to cancel class, but I didn't think that would be fair to my students.

It turned out that I ought to have taken his advice. Bree had been enrolled in my other course, but word had obviously spread to many of my students and I quickly realized that there was no point in trying to get anyone to show interest in a lecture that I was hardly in the mood to deliver. I returned their quizzes and glanced down at my notes. _Dear God. _

"So," I started wearily, but determined. "What did you think of what the critics had to say? Is _Frankenstein _really as morbid as all that?"

Silence.

"Well, what do you think about what critics say about violence in video games and movies today? Do they encourage violence?"

Nothing.

"Really? No one here plays GTA?"

Crickets.

"Was your office really broken into?" a junior asked.

I sighed.

In the end, I decided to answer at least a few of their questions. I left out any mention of Tanya, of course, but admitted that my office had been broken into and that one of my students had been murdered, but said that I couldn't say anything about it because of the police investigation. Then, after securing their solemn vows to read ahead in the syllabus, I let the students go early.

Since I'd ended ahead of schedule, I had at least an hour before Jasper would be finished with his own lecture. My classroom was right next to the main office, so I decided to wait in the hallway, sitting on a well-aged sofa set against one wall. There was more than enough traffic in the hallway to ensure that I wouldn't fall prey to any foul play, even if I still couldn't bring myself to imagine just what form that foul play might take. I was by no means the stuff of _White Chapel_ notoriety.

If nothing else, I reasoned, the escalation of events was providing the police with more evidence. Surely, they would catch the perpetrator soon enough. Because I couldn't picture going through day after day like this, being escorted from place to place, feeling so perfectly helpless.

Wanting to do something useful, I took out a pad of paper and began listing random authors, trying to jog my memory as to the sources of the rest of the quotations from the letters.

With a pang of regret, it occurred to me that if I'd bothered to invest more energy in the letters when they'd first arrived, following through on the temptation to seek out their underlying logic, I might have discovered something that would have led to Tanya's killer long before Bree's life was ever put in danger. Yet, I still had no real proof that there was a connection between the letters and Tanya or Bree. Just the mounting accumulation of coincidences.

I was halfway down the page when my cell rang. It was Edward.

I hesitated before answering, pausing just long enough to realize that I was being ridiculous. More important issues were at hand than my feelings, whatever those feelings might be, for Edward Cullen.

Despite, or perhaps because of, my trepidations, I was surprised to hear the anxiety in Edward's voice. He clearly wanted to see me, and I didn't have the slightest idea how I was meant to feel about that—for in spite of the darkness surrounding Bree's murder and everything else, I couldn't deny feeling a guilty twinge of joy at his eagerness, which didn't make any sense at all, because naturally I was uncertain as to how I was going to go about dealing with this new Edward, a man whom it seemed I didn't know at all, and one who, for all I knew, was eager to see me only because he blamed himself for my current predicament and had been worried about my safety—but I told him that I'd wait for him to pick me up.

I didn't have Jasper's number, but I assumed that Edward would send him a text telling him the change in plans.

I had a view of the parking lot from the bench where I was sitting, through a wide window in the far wall. So I watched the rain while I waited and worked on my list.

I managed to remember another quotation as I passed the time, and I decided that I would go through my books at home for more suggestions. The police had said that I could go home, though they didn't advise it. I would make Edward go with me, as it was clear that he wasn't leaving me alone any time soon. I would put him to work looking up quotations. Work. That was what we needed. Not this nonsensical confusion of overwrought emotions.

I would follow through on my suggestion regarding a possible cipher too. I was sure that the police were going to try their own hand at deciphering the missives, but naturally I needed to do whatever I could to help. Whatever books were lying broken and ruined in my office could probably be looked up on _Gaslight_ or _Project Gutenberg_.

A short while later, I saw Edward's Porsche pull up at the curb outside. The rain was coming down pretty hard as I sprinted out of the building and towards the vehicle. I had my eyes on the ground, dodging puddles, and I barely glanced at Edward—his form obscured by a hoody—as I pulled the door open and quickly slipped inside. If anything, I was amused at the idle notion that I'd gotten something over on him by not letting him come around to open the door for me himself, a juvenile, selfish thought in the midst of the fucked up chicanery of the last few days, and perhaps he wouldn't have bothered in the rain after all.

It seemed that I wasn't alone, though, in my amusement on that point, for the childproof locks snapped on as soon as I was inside, as if in anticipation of making me wait for permission to exit.

Despite everything, I smiled at Edward's immaturity, and turned to him only to freeze.

"Who are you?"

**AN: **

**Rec: You Were There by harperpitt **Young and struggling actress Bella Swan has just moved from Seattle to NYC, where she meets hot doctor Edward Cullen, but it's not that easy, for both have some baggage to carry. AH/AU, canon couplings and rated M. Fluff, drama, and Edward in scrubs... Twilight - Rated: M - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 35 - Words: 146,894 - Reviews: 745 - Favs: 1,096 - Follows: 433 - Updated: Aug 30, 2011 - Published: Feb 27, 2011 - Bella, Edward - Complete


	26. Chapter 26

**Thanks for reading!**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 22

'_Revenge!—the word seemed balm to me; I hugged it, caressed it, till, like a serpent, it stung me.' — Mary Shelley_

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, our heroine let herself be locked inside Edward Cullen's vehicle. A vehicle not being driven by Edward Cullen. It is because of incidents such as this that we are inclined to suspect that book smarts amount to very little in the real world._

My first conscious thought was that I had gone mad.

I had gone insane and there was no longer any reason to feign sanity now that gibbering chaos was at my back.

This realization, the discovery that I had lost my sanity, was really what roused me.

Because how else was I to explain the fact that, in the twenty-first century no less, I was locked in a dungeon?

There was no other explanation: The pressure of circumstances had destroyed my last shreds of lucidity and I was in the thrall of a hallucination.

A shudder stole over me as I took in my predicament. A throbbing skull barred any hasty movement, even without the manacles.

_My God, manacles?!_

The chill dampness was to be explained by the water dripping slowly down the stone wall to which I was chained.

But the other details of my immediate surroundings remained murky in the weak sputtering light that came from some unknown source behind me, no doubt a torch in the grip of a crypt-keeper.

And then—

As if all the rest were not sufficient to render me senseless again with sheer terror—

I began to make out, too, the rattle of some shackles and an intermittent groan, as if the skeleton of my cell's former inmate was rearing to life at my back as I lay there helpless, a ghoul intent upon inflicting upon me some unimaginable agony as punishment for my involuntary intrusion upon his domain.

I closed my eyes, wondering what new horror awaited me next.

"Fuck!" the ghost cursed.

And with that short utterance, I knew that I was not mad. Or if I _was_ mad, at least I was not alone, for I was accompanied by none other than Edward Anthony Cullen, a creature whose strange ways confused and befuddled me, but who I wanted to believe was no longer the tormentor of my youth.

I felt a sudden rush of hope. Surely Edward was here to rescue me.

Right?

"Edward?" I whispered, wincing in pain as I tried to turn my head.

"Bella? Thank fucking God! I thought for a minute that they'd fucking killed you."

I was barely able to make out Edward's form on the far side of the small room. He appeared to be in much the same condition as I, handcuffed to a pipe running along the wall. We were the room's sole occupants, not one stick of furniture to suggest the room's purpose, although the exposed pipes and concrete suggested an association with industry.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"In some warehouse. That crazy bitch Victoria had some guy hit me over the head with a tire iron. When I woke up, he was handcuffing me to this pipe." Edward rattled his handcuffs in annoyance. "A while later, he carried you in. Unconscious. What's the last thing you remember?"

It hurt to think, but I gave it my best. "I was going to the Porsche—oh." I was an idiot. "I don't remember anything after that." I felt as if I'd been hit over the back of the head. "Except that a woman was driving."

"Red hair?"

"Yeah."

"Victoria. James' girlfriend. I think she's the one who killed Tanya. She's got some guy working with her. I don't think I've seen him before."

"They just left us here?"

"They've been in and out a couple of times. Waiting for you to wake up, I think." Edward growled, straining at his cuffs.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though it was fairly obvious.

"I'm trying to get out of the handcuffs. Or pull the pipe off of the wall. Whichever works first."

"It doesn't look like either one is working."

"It's not."

I looked at the handcuffs around my own wrists. They were rather tight, so I didn't think that I'd be able to free myself of them easily. Giving a tentative shove to the one-inch pipe to which I was manacled, I wasn't encouraged by the resistance I felt. Resolved nevertheless to try, I braced my bare feet against the wall, my flats apparently having fallen off when I was carried in, and gripped the pipe in both hands, pulling with all my might.

My head began throbbing even more with the strain. I had to give up after a minute.

"Bella, you're going to hurt yourself," Edward warned, but I wasn't inclined to think that we should be indulging the opportunity to spare ourselves just then.

Trying again, I was forced to give up this time when my hands slipped from the slick pipe and I slumped against the cold ground.

I waited until I had recovered some of my strength, and tried again. And again. And again. Wrenching at the pipe, pushing and shoving at it in frustration, hoping that I could force it to give way just a little, only for me to collapse, gasping for breath.

"I'm so sorry," Edward groaned as he too took a break. "This is all my fault."

This was not the time for recrimination. We had to focus on escaping.

"I think," I said, rubbing my hands together to ease the sting. "I remember now. Well, I don't remember everything. But I remember getting out of your car."

Victoria had parked in a loading zone and had ordered me out of the car. Broken windows and boarded up doorways were adorning the rundown buildings on every side. I seriously doubted that there would be anyone in the vicinity willing to lend me assistance.

I swallowed. "And the woman—Victoria?—had a gun. I reached for it but something hit me on the back of my head."

"You were going to _fight _her?" Edward asked incredulously.

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"Scream for help?"

"She might have shot me," I reminded him, bracing my feet against the wall again.

"She might have shot you if you tried to take the gun," Edward pointed out rather erroneously since I _did_ try to take the gun and I _hadn't_ been shot.

I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of the Count of Monte Cristo. What a clever and unflagging chap.

_Where would he have been if he'd just given up?_ I asked myself, refusing to relent. And this time, my efforts were rewarded as I finally felt the pipe begin to give way.

Sagging with relief, I took another minute to catch my breath. "Listen," Edward was saying, "if they come back, I'll—" blah blah blah, and "You just pretend to still be unconscious." Not bothering to interrupt Edward's speech with news of my success—no need to get his hopes up yet—I began pulling again.

The Count of Monte Cristo, indeed.

_Where was my treasure?_ I wondered as my muscles burned. _My revenge?_

The only person—or at least one of the only people—on whom I would have wanted to take revenge was presently locked up in this dungeon right alongside me.

And revenge was such a nonsensical emotion. I couldn't imagine myself wanting it. Even this Victoria—

I remembered the animals on my doorstep and felt a surge of anger, hissing as I wrenched at the pipe.

In the end, I was almost sobbing with the struggle, but I laughed out loud when I managed to pull the pipe from the wall. It was only by a fraction of an inch, but it was enough.

"Holy shit," Edward said, breaking off a detailed explanation of his "Plan" mid-sentence.

Afraid that I had already made too much noise trying to wrestle with the pipe, I quietly inched my way along the floor, holding the chain of the handcuffs off of the metal so that it didn't make any noise as I slipped it over the bolt that had attached the pipe to the wall, and dragged myself to the end of the pipe. I slipped the chain past the end of the pipe itself, grateful for the state of disrepair that had left this one length of pipe unfinished, water dripping out of the opening.

The pain in my head making me dizzy, I wobbled as I rose to my feet and turned towards Edward. Whereas I'd had to detach only one bolt from the wall, he had four. And his pipe was finished, so that we would also have to undo one of the joints if we hoped to get him free.

I stumbled over to Edward, dropping to the floor with my feet against the wall and my hands around the pipe.

Edward counted off, and we pulled, but it was no good.

We lay next to each other, gasping for air as we rested up for another try.

"Jasper will look for us," I said, _sotte voce_. "Unless you told him that you were going to pick me up."

"I didn't have a chance," Edward answered, his voice equally low as we endeavored to conduct our conversation in hushed tones.

"See? We'll be fine."

Which was bullshit because even if the police were already looking for us—which I doubted—they probably had no way of tracing us to wherever it was we'd been taken.

"Well," I said, finding some consolation in the knowledge that I was not in fact in a dungeon at the mercy of a chained skeleton, "at least I'm not crazy."

Edward cast me a weary glance, and we resumed our assault on the pipe.

"This is a waste of time," Edward groaned quietly after several more failed attempts. "You need to just go. Try to find a way out."

"And leave you?" I didn't like this idea. There was safety in numbers, wasn't there? Even if one of us was chained to a wall.

"Don't you like horror movies? How did they get out of this in _Saw_?"

"What? Why not?" Edward asked, his voice was ragged with exhaustion.

"They cheat," I explained logically.

"Cheat?" Edward appeared bemused, his manner entirely out of keeping with the nature of our situation.

"Everyone's afraid of serial killers. It's too easy. True horror should make you fear something that you know can't hurt you."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I think it makes perfect sense." I started to brace my feet again, wrapping my aching hands around the pipe.

"Bella, just go."

I closed my eyes and pulled, but the pipe just wouldn't move and Edward wasn't even bothering to help.

Sighing, I sat up and gazed down at Edward. He was sprawling awkwardly on the ground next to me, his long legs folded up against the wall and his arms suspended from the pipe.

"I'll get the police," I told him.

"Yeah," Edward nodded, his expression resolute, as if he had absolute faith in me.

I wondered how he could possibly be so sure about me when _I _wasn't sure about me.

I swallowed with difficulty.

Edward's features, I decided, were not without some charm, even to someone of my discerning tastes.

"Fine," I agreed, getting to my feet carefully, still feeling dizzy and discouraged by the wave of nausea that washed over me. The concrete flooring was cold and rough against my bare feet. The light, I realized, was coming from a fluorescent panel in the ceiling of the hallway outside the small room where we'd been left.

"Be careful," Edward warned.

I cast one last lingering glance at him, but couldn't think of anything to say.

Turning around, I peered into the hallway. The corridor was empty. Several doorways led off of the hallway and an elevator shaft stood at the far end.

I didn't let myself think about what I would do if I ran into Victoria or her new boyfriend. Or what they would do if they returned and found Edward all alone.

I quickly tiptoed into the passageway, scurrying to the first opening and pausing to listen before peering inside. Amorphous machines of indeterminate purpose and worktables cluttered up the space, but there was no exit in sight.

Quickly making my way to the next opening, I found the same thing.

Two more openings led to other hallways, the rest leading to rooms like the first.

Having no choice but to take my chances, I slipped into the second hallway.

I had never had a very good sense of direction. Now with a pounding headache, I was by no means at my best. Still, I tried to navigate the twists and turns of the labyrinthine system of rooms and hallways in which I found myself. It was no good. It was too dark to see where I was going and I was dizzy and confused.

I thought back to all of the times that I'd gotten lost in the past. It happened so regularly that I hardly paid any attention to it anymore. I always left extra time whenever I had to go somewhere new. I would joke about it with people. "I know that I haven't arrived until I've made at least one u-turn." It wouldn't be very funny if Edward died because of me, would it?

My heart was already racing and my stomach was already sick with nausea, but I began to feel a real sense of dread as I became increasingly lost.

How long ago had I left Edward? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

They'd probably realized that I was missing.

What were they doing to Edward?

Panicked, I decided to try and make my way back to him. But then I realized that I couldn't even figure out how to do that. There were no windows, so I had no way of knowing what time of day it was or how much time was passing.

Frantic, I quickened my pace, only to trip over a piece of stray equipment in the meager light and bruise myself against the jagged edges of the instrument. I still had no idea what purpose the warehouse or factory had served, but whatever its function, it seemed to have sat in disuse for some time, my fingers slick with the dust that covered the tools. But I remembered the fluorescent lighting behind me, and I took comfort in knowing that even if the building wasn't in common use, there was still enough activity for someone to continue paying the electric bill. We might not be able to expect help soon, but someone would eventually come. If only to find our corpses.

After I had been wandering for what seemed like an hour—by which point I was nearly hysterical with anxiety, my breaths coming in shuddering sobs—I came upon a staircase.

In my haste to escape, I began scrambling up the steps, only to freeze at the sound of a woman's voice raised in anger.

"Tell me where the fuck she is or I swear to God I will put a bullet in your fucking skull."

_Oh my God!_

Creeping up the stairs slowly on my hands and knees, I hesitated at the top, carefully peeking over the last few steps to see a huge vacant space, some two stories tall, with grimy windows along the roof letting in a scanty, hazy light.

Edward was kneeling on the ground, his wrists still in handcuffs in front of him. The redheaded woman who I'd met in the car, Victoria, was standing in front of him, aiming a gun at his forehead.

"I can't find her," I heard a man pant, and saw the speaker emerge from another stairwell on the far side of the room. Clearly my sense of direction was so poor that, while I had been wandering in circles, Victoria and her accomplice had had time not only to discover my disappearance, but to drag Edward upstairs while looking for me.

"Call the slut's name," Victoria ordered Edward.

"Fuck you," he spat.

_Holy shit!_

I heard the safety of the gun clicking off. "Isssabella," she screamed, drawing out my name in a sickening sybillant sound. "I'm going to blow a fucking hole in your boyfriend's skull if you don't come out right the fuck now!"

"I'm here," I lurched up the last three steps. "I'm here."

_This isn't real. _

I stretched out a hand in a senseless request—for what? Help? Mercy? We were going to die.

At the sound of my voice, Edward's face had crumpled, all of the hope seeming to go out of him.

"I'm sorry," I told him, because I had failed him and I had failed Bree and I had had so many opportunities to stop this from happening and I'd ignored them all. Because I'd never imagined that something like this could happen to me.  
"No," he stopped me. "_I'm_ sorry."

Victoria's accomplice lurched over to me and, grabbing me roughly by the arm, dragged me in front of Victoria and shoved me to my knees.

_Is this what this is like?_ I wondered, disbelieving.

No, it couldn't be. I refused to accept it.

It was all happening too fast.

_This isn't real!_

"I don't understand," I stuttered, hazarding a glance at Victoria as if the sight of her alone would be enough to help me understand.

Because I couldn't understand. It was illogical. Irrational. It just didn't make sense.

And the realization that I was going to die without knowing _why_ _I was going to die_ seemed to let loose a wailing cry that only I could hear, a dissolution too absolute to ever be rectified, madness indeed, and the victory of all of the monsters of the _Roiling Abyss _and the _Mountains of Madness_ combined_._

_This. Isn't. Real._

I felt Edward beside me and I began to shake at the realization that he was going to be here at the end after all.

All of those times in high school that Edward had made me wish that I could just disappear, just _Not Be_, were coming to fruition here, with him, _beside him_, and it didn't make sense.

Suicide, which I'd not seriously considered for so long, _that_ at least had made sense, at least to me. _This_ was insane. Because it had been eight years or more since I'd last thought of killing myself—bound up as that urge was with so many memories that I no longer let myself dwell upon. I didn't want to die now. And this was sheer insanity.

It didn't make any _fucking_ sense.

"Why are you doing this?" I heard myself ask, in a gruesome parody of every stock drama of a suspenseful bent, the hackneyed question driven not by reason or calculation, I knew, but by the simple terror that I would die _without understanding_.

And though it didn't make sense, because any sane criminal would have just killed us at once, but perhaps because she _was _insane, Victoria began to explain.

"Did you think I would just let you get away with it?" she demanded, nudging Edward's chin with the gun.

"With what?" I prompted, not because I thought that I might buy time and allow us to find a way out of this alive, but because I couldn't help myself.

"You stupid bitch," Victoria wheeled on me. "Lying for your boyfriend so that he wouldn't go to jail. Pretending to be the good little policeman's daughter so that everyone believed you. But I _watched you_. I saw you two together again. I knew that you were just waiting for enough to time to pass so that no one would be suspicious."

"I didn't lie."

Pain shot across my jaw as Victoria slapped me.

"Leave her alone," Edward yelled, and I heard the sounds of a struggle, but when I looked back, I saw Victoria's accomplice with a gun to Edward's temple, forcing him down again.

"Wait," I begged, tears filling my eyes, either with the pain of the slap or the trauma of knowing that I was about to die. I looked at Victoria, pleading. "Please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't have—"

I was afraid to deny lying again.

So instead I asked her a question. "Do you have any idea what Edward put me through in high school?"

Victoria huffed. "James told me _all_ about you. A loser who covered for the class hero just so that he would fuck you. Maybe you _did _see him, but so what? You could've kept your mouth shut. I had it set up _so nicely._ And you ruined it! I'm sure he rewarded you for your efforts."

My stomach rolled. "That isn't true. You can't—I _hated _him. I would have slit my wrists before I let him anywhere near me." I would have swallowed poison to keep the old Edward away from me.

Victoria cackled. A witch from one of Durer's etchings, her hair wild and her eyes flashing. "You think you hate him? You don't know _anything_ about hate."

"I know sitting with an exacto knife in the dark tracing the vein on your arm, one time two times three times over and over again for hours, and planning to go into the woods to do it, to a meadow where no one is around, so that your father isn't the one who has to find you, in his kitchen, because you can't take it, not one more minute, because you'll have to go back to school the next day, and _he'll_ be there."

I remembered the surge of anger that I'd felt, too, seeing Edward in my meadow the day that Tanya died. It was _my _meadow. He had no right. I had finally graduated, after all. I was done with high school and his daily torment. I'd no plans to kill myself that afternoon, the_ Roiling Abyss _was behind me at last and I had no way of knowing that college would be just another kind of hell. I had wanted to visit my meadow one last time, to just sit there and enjoy my peace—utterly alone, no one watching, no one judging, commenting, laughing. I was steeling myself for the ordeal of visiting my mother and her new husband. So imagine my horror when I arrived at the meadow and found _him_ sitting there.

I knelt on the floor of that warehouse/factory, remembering that day so long ago, and I could felt the weight of Edward's eyes as they bored holes into the side of my face.

I refused to look at him, to grant him the mercy of acknowledging his scrutiny. What did he know of self-loathing? I wasn't ashamed, even if suicide wasn't exactly the sort of thing that one ever mentioned in polite company, because it was far better that one shove the memories down, memories like shards of glass pressing up through the skin.

If I was utterly ignorant about so many things—like the cultivation of a conversation and the security of friendship and the expression of true compassion—Edward was the inexperienced one here. If I was broken, he was mute, deaf, blind, dumb. He could never understand. He was shallow. He could never imagine what it was like to want to—

Victoria studied me, as if judging what I'd just said, weighing my veracity. "Did he tell you why he deserves to suffer?" she asked.

I imagined inflicting the kind of torment on Edward that he'd once inflicted upon me. Watching him bend and break. Making him hate himself.

But that would make me no better than the monster he'd once been. And I was better than him. Too good for him.

Besides, Edward might never be able to take back the things he'd once done, yet I knew what he was like now. He _had_ changed. There was no point in punishing the person he was now for crimes a decade old.

"I know everything that he did to me," I said. "I don't know what he did to you."

Victoria rocked back and forth on her feet, her eyes rocketing around the wide open room. "Riley knows," she said, looking at her accomplice. "Edward should know too, but he is clearly too much of a _liar_ to have admitted the truth to you. Or maybe mommy never told her poor baby the truth." Her eyes flashed to my face again. "James knew, but then Edward made him go away. I could have killed Edward for what he did to James but I knew that he would come back for you eventually. And I wanted you to have to pay too. You ruined my revenge!"

And then I _was _making a bid for more time, not that I thought it would help, but because _Who the Fuck_ was this _Bitch_ to think that _she_ had a right to her revenge when I'd ceded _my_ claim?

And who was she to drag me into it?

_Fuck her!_

"What did Edward do to you?" I asked.

Victoria bent over at the waist and pressed the gun to the center of my chest. "What do you think he did?"

I closed my eyes and willed my heart to slow its hammering.

"It's me you want. Let her go," I heard Edward growl.

"He was _born_," Victoria hissed. "He had a mommy and a daddy and what did I have? His mother just up and abandoned my mother, her own sister, and I was left with only a father and I had _nothing_. _Do you know what my childhood was like?_"

And that was when Florence and the Machine's _Shake It Out_ erupted from the corner of the room.

"What the—?" Victoria whirled in the direction of the sound, only to be struck down as a body slammed into her from the opposite side.

"Seth!" I sobbed, unable to believe what I was seeing. Seth had appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, and was now wrestling on the ground with Victoria as a curse sounded from my right. I turned to see Edward struggling with Riley.

Clambering to my feet, I threw myself on Riley's back, scrambling for leverage.

"Stop Bella!" Edward yelled at me, but I slipped the loop of my handcuffs over Riley's head and wrapped one of my arms around his throat, trying to cut off his air, utterly terrified, both of killing Riley and of not killing him, and forced myself to squeeze as hard as I could because I couldn't be the reason that Riley and Victoria hurt anyone else, not easing up on the pressure until I felt the man beginning to crumble under me.

"I've got the gun," Edward said. _Thank God_, I thought as I struggled to disentangle myself from Riley, who wasn't entirely unconscious as he slumped to the ground, his hands going to his throat.

But then the noise of the other gun going off behind me stopped my heart in my chest. I pushed myself away from Riley and turned, afraid that I would find that Seth had been shot.

Staggering in Seth's direction, I couldn't see any blood at first, because Seth's body was on top of Victoria's. I yanked on Seth's shoulder, ignoring Edward's warning, and froze in horror.

A red pool was spreading across Victoria's chest.

And in shock, it seemed, at the gun going off, Seth had ceased to fight for it.

Leaving the weapon to Victoria, who was now aiming it unsteadily in my direction.

Before she could fire, I felt myself being shoved roughly to the side so that I fell to my hands and knees.

I spun around and gasped as Edward collapsed backward.

**AN: **

**Rec: Anybody There by Kat097 **AU AH. "I'm not a damsel in distress and I sure as hell didn't put out a flyer for a white knight." Sometimes the damsel wants to do things her own damn way, despite her feelings for the man who wants to save her. B/E. Complete with outtakes. Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Drama - Bella, Edward - Chapters: 40 - Words: 163,342 - Reviews: 693 - Favs: 643 - Follows: 225 - Updated: Oct 12, 2009 - Published: Aug 4, 2009 - Status: Complete - id: 5276194


	27. Chapter 27

**I've slightly revised the tone (not the content) of chapter 21 (chapter 25 per Fanfiction's dropdown menu). It's still not perfect but I hope the revision helps to ease the way into the below chapter. Many thanks to everyone who offered their advice! **

**And thanks for reading! Explanation for the delay in posting below.**

**Meyer owns all.**

Chapter 23

'_With what an unexpected feeling the sight of it surprised me as I came before it! A single grand impression filled my soul—an impression that, because it consisted of a thousand harmonizing particulars, I could certainly taste and enjoy but in no way identify or explain. They say the joys of heaven are like this.' – Goethe _

BPOV

_Last time in _Gothic_, Tanya Denali's murderer was revealed as Victoria, otherwise known as the crazy redheaded bitch, Edward's cousin. Her evil plot being foiled by the Seth-ex-machina of our heroine's artist friend, the crazy redheaded bitch carried out one last act of fiendishness, and shot our hero, Edward Cullen._

I could hear the wail of sirens in the distance as I pressed down on the wound in Edward's chest. It wasn't anywhere near his heart, but I couldn't help thinking that some major blood vessel must have been damaged for there to be so much blood.

I still had the handcuffs around my wrists and they limited my movement. I tried to bunch up the cloth of Edward's shirt to soak up the blood but it wasn't working.

"Tell me what to do," I begged Edward, tears clouding my vision. "I don't know what to do to help you. You've got to tell me."

"Stop—" he started to answer.

"What?" I drew back. Was I hurting him?

"The blood."

_Stop the blood._

Panicking, I resumed my efforts, but it wasn't any good.

"Seth," I sobbed, and looked up to see him standing guard over Victoria and Riley, both guns held loosely in his hands.

Victoria looked to be near death. She'd somehow been shot while struggling with Seth for the gun. _Thank God._

If only I hadn't pulled Seth off of her, she wouldn't have shot Edward.

But then she would have shot Seth.

If only Edward hadn't pushed me out of the way.

But then she would have shot me.

Fortunately, Victoria had passed out almost immediately after firing at Edward, so that Seth was able to retrieve the gun from Victoria's limp hands as I'd rushed towards Edward. I had only dimly noticed as Seth retrieved the gun that Edward had taken from Riley.

It was all happening too fast. Edward was bleeding too much. If only I could slow time down.

"Don't fucking move," Seth screamed at the bitch and her accomplice, even though the former was clearly dead, or close to it, and the latter was still clutching at his throat—a throat that I might have crushed had I shown any less reserve.

"Seth," I repeated and he glanced at me with a panicked expression.

"Stop the blood," Seth suggested, his tone frantic, as if it as was easy as that.

Looking down again at Edward, I saw that his eyes were closed. So I gritted my teeth and applied more pressure to his wound, determined to staunch the flow of blood, refusing to acknowledge the sick terror clawing at my insides.

The sirens grew louder and there was a shrill bang as what sounded like metal doors opened behind me. I heard someone ordering Seth to lower the guns and then a cacophony of other voices, all of them muted by the rushing in my ears, as the room flooded with police officers. An EMT's hands replaced my own as someone pulled me bodily away.

I wanted to watch to make sure that Edward was okay, but I was also afraid of being in the way, so I let them pull me aside, but then I couldn't make out Edward's form through the mass of people suddenly filling the space, and there were officers in front of me asking questions—_Was I alright? Was there anyone else in the warehouse? Had anyone else been hurt?_—and I shook my head dumbly, craning my neck to see Edward. Suddenly, I could see him again because the EMTs had moved him onto a gurney and were pushing him towards the exit. _The exit_—a set of doors gaping open in the far wall. I moved to follow Edward but I was forcibly stopped, a hand on my shoulder and an officer in my path—_Let them work on him_—like I would actually stop try to stop them. So I watched as Edward was wheeled out of the door and put into the back of an ambulance waiting just outside the doors in the loading dock.

I felt my throat close as the ambulance took off in a flurry of lights and screaming sirens.

"Are you hurt?" an EMT inquired, trying to shine a pen light into my eyes.

"Is Edward going to be okay?" I managed to ask despite the pressure in my throat.

"Where does it hurt?" the EMT asked.

I looked at the nearest officer. "Is he going to be okay?" I repeated.

"You've got to let them take care of you ma'am."

"I want to go to the hospital," I said, jerking away from the EMT who was pawing at me and looking around for Seth.

I saw him sagging against a pillar, his hands on his knees. In front of him, a trio of EMTs stood around the redheaded bitch, the paraphernalia of their failed rescue attempt lying in a bloody mess around her corpse. Riley was facedown, his arms handcuffed behind his back.

"We'll have you out of these and get you to the hospital," one of the officers said, tugging on my handcuffs. I felt my stomach roll.

"I want to go now," I told him, because they could have let me ride with Edward and they hadn't.

It was probably but the work of a few minutes—it felt like forever—and they were unlocking my handcuffs with a key found in one of Riley's pockets and ushering me through the door and into my own ambulance.

"I don't need to go like this," I said, but they just ignored me.

"The same hospital as Edward," I said to make sure that they knew.

"Let's just get you looked at," one of the EMTs said.

"The same hospital!" I demanded.

"We're going to the same one," the other EMT said, his tone no doubt meant to be soothing, but only annoying me further.

"Well let's go then," I said, but they still took their sweet time.

Their sweet _fucking _time.

I had never, I supposed, been a very patient person. I was so used to getting my way because I never had to wait on anyone. I just did whatever I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it.

And just then I wanted nothing more to see Edward.

_Immediately._

But instead, once we reached the hospital, they insisted on ushering me into a curtained area for examination. I tried telling them that I was fine but it was useless.

A series of nurses appeared then—yes a _series_ of nurses, when one would have been more than enough—all of them asking me questions, which I condescended to answer, thinking that it would expedite matters, but _no_. They denied knowing anything about Edward's condition, which was ridiculous because I knew damn well that they could just look it up.

When an officer appeared, I tried asking him, but he didn't know either.

A physician's assistant came after that to shine lights in my eyes and to touch my head and to ask me all of the same questions all over again. As if she thought that I'd been lying the first three times I'd answered the same set of questions.

Then a person claiming to be a doctor came and did all of the same things all over again. All of them. All over again.

A person can take only so much. There is a point at which she will break.

My breaking point was the so-called doctor telling me that he would come back to check on me in a while.

Only for _a while_ to come and go.

"You can't leave," a nurse told me when I emerged from the curtained off area. She was obviously mistaken, since I was in fact leaving. What she meant to say was _We don't want you to leave_.

There was nothing stopping me though. Another nurse had already given me a pair of slippers, because I'd lost my shoes at the warehouse/factory, and I had my very own officer to follow me around, so it wasn't as if they could say that they were worried that I might run away.

"Concussion _blah blah blah,_" the nurse clucked as she followed me down the hallway.

I reminded her that I felt just fine.

"_Blah blah_ hospital liability_ blah blah."_

"Don't you have a form that I can sign?" I asked.

So I signed her form in return for the name of the department where they were treating Edward.

When I got there, though, it was only to learn that I would have to wait some more. The officer and I were shown into our very own waiting room. The kind of room where they put you when they expect that they'll have to give you bad news.

I sat quietly, my hands folded in my lap, relieved that the officer didn't seem inclined to chat. And I waited. Endeavoring to exercise a patience that I didn't possess.

"_I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing. What wholesome has ripened is wholesome food to eat, And that alone._"

It was an old poem that I'd memorized in my youth.

Repeated like a prayer.

It occurred to me that it would be useful to believe in God at a time like this.

But I didn't believe in God, so there wasn't anyone to bargain with.

Instead, I watched the clock and silently recited old poems.

"_Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world."_

I found that I could go through every one of the poems that I'd ever memorized in less than ten minutes.

Four rounds in less than thirty minutes.

So I tried running through Latin conjugations instead. _Amo amas amat amamus amatis amant. _

Active, passive, present, past, imperfect, future, future perfect, past perfect.

Not even five minutes.

When at last Seth found me, he wasn't any help either. He just kept asking me if I was alright and what the doctors had said, which was nothing.

I wanted to snap at him to leave me alone, but if it weren't for him, I would be dead.

And Edward would be—

Seth told me that he had called Alice, who had called Jasper. And soon enough Alice and Jasper were at the hospital with us.

Which just made it even worse. They wanted to talk about things that I didn't want to talk about and kept asking me questions that I couldn't answer.

Alice tried to hug me. I glared at her until she retreated to her chair.

And the whole time, that officer in the corner just watched us with suspicious, as if Seth and I planned to sneak off in order to get our stories straight.

But I didn't want to go anywhere. I didn't want to talk.

I declined all of Alice's invitations to the cafeteria and just ignored Seth when he asked if I wanted to go for a walk to stretch my legs.

My father arrived at last, the minutes on the clock creeping by so slowly that I wanted to rip the time piece from the wall and manually advance the hands.

Esme and Carlisle had ridden with my father, fortunately. I was sure that Edward would want to see them when he—

I couldn't finish the thought.

I let Esme hug me. It was the least that I could do.

People continued to talk at me though, and _that_ I could not tolerate.

Didn't they know that we were waiting to know if Edward was alright?

Couldn't they just sit and be quiet for a minute?

Just for a minute.

Just for as many minutes as it took for him to be okay.

_Why?_ they kept asking, and _What if—_, but I shook my head at them. It didn't matter. No explanation could possibly suffice if the worst were to happen and—

So I sat quietly, painstakingly observing the passage of time as if I could pull each second out of the air and examine it as it slid past.

Finally, _finally, _finally a doctor came through the door.

But it was Esme and Carlisle he wanted, pulling them aside to a corner of the room to update them on Edward's condition, which I understood of course because they were his parents and should be the first to know.

Yet I was the one who still had Edward's blood under her fingernails, traces still lingering because a brief rinse in a sink just wasn't sufficient to wash it all away.

And scrubbing at my hands like that—

It had just made me feel so guilty. As if I wanted Edward himself gone.

I held my breath as Esme and Carlisle conversed with the doctor in hushed tones.

Because if Edward was dead then it wouldn't matter, would it?

And when Esme buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with laughter, I couldn't help the sob that escaped from my lips, and I stumbled to my feet, pushing my way past Alice. If I hadn't wanted the food or the coffee she'd been trying to press on me so far then I certainly wouldn't want her trying to comfort me now.

I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. _Breathe_, I told myself, gripping the hard metal of the door and trying to calm down. _It's okay._

And once the tears were safely at bay, I had to put a hand over my mouth to stop the hysterical laughter.

_He's alright_, I thought. _He's alright_. _He's alright_.

By the time that I returned to the waiting room—my faithful officer having stood outside the bathroom to escort me back to the room like a guard dog—Esme and Carlisle were gone. Carlisle had called in a favor so that they could see Edward, who was apparently awake already.

_He's awake_. I almost laughed out loud with pleasure.

It was after midnight and I was exhausted. Giddy but tired. Utterly elated and sick with fatigue.

"Don't the police want to question me?" I asked Jacob, who had appeared at some point while I was in the bathroom.

"They'll wait until the morning," he said.

I nodded, standing hesitantly in the doorway of the waiting room.

I wanted to see him. Of course I wanted to see him. If Jasper was going to be able to see him—Carlisle was pulling some strings—then surely I should be able to do so too.

But was that my place?

No, it wasn't.

Yes, it was. It _was_ my place! How could it not be?

I _wanted _to see him.

Jasper gazed up at me. "Don't you want to visit Edward before you go?"

I blinked.

"We're not leaving yet," Seth said, still resting comfortably in his chair. Seth had offered to let me and my father spend the night at his apartment, and I been all too happy to agree. Despite Jacob's reassurances that the police had double-checked my place to ensure that there'd been no breaking and entering, I knew that I would feel more courageous about returning in the full light of day after a good night's sleep and with my own well-armed father close at hand. "We'll wait until you have a chance to see him," Seth explained.

So I sat back down and waited.

"He'll want to know you're okay," Alice told me.

Was that true?

Of course it was. I _knew _that.

But what did that mean?

I knew what I secretly _wanted_ it to mean.

Shaking my head, I tried to be reasonable. I reminded myself that it was the last act of our Lifetime movie. We would declare bygones to be bygones, or whatever, and then say goodbye. We might see each other by chance now and then, especially if Alice and Jasper continued to date. But Edward had found Tanya's murderer. He didn't need me anymore. He was free to move on with his life, quit the ER and go into private practice, spend time with his friends and plan NFL fantasy draft picks, and find a woman who could not only function in a relationship but would look good on his arm and wouldn't make him share a bed with her because she was afraid of the dark.

As for me, I would be just fine. I wasn't the one who'd spent the last ten years trying to prove that I hadn't committed murder. I had my teaching and my research.

And I wanted to meet Bree's family and tell them how sorry I was for what had happened to her. Because of course I was sure that Victoria was responsible for that too. As useless and meaningless as my words would no doubt be to Bree's family in their grief, they were all I had to offer.

Otherwise, everything would return to normal in a week or two. It certainly wasn't as if I would miss all of the time that I'd been spending with Edward.

He was just someone that I knew.

When Esme and Carlisle left Edward's room, Jasper and I fought over who got to see Edward next. Which is to say that Jasper told me to go on ahead of him, and I pretended that I didn't care if I had to wait, when that was a lie.

At last, I agreed to go and followed the nurse back. Still giddy, I couldn't help smiling to myself, anticipating Edward's arrogant self-congratulations over having taken a bullet in my place.

But the smile dropped from my face the second I entered the room.

Were it not for the noise of the machines, I would have thought that Edward was dead.

His eyes were closed. I'd never seen him look so poor. The hospital gown was awkwardly drawn over his chest where a mass of bandages bulged just under his right shoulder.

I hesitated, uncertain. I knew that he needed his rest.

I began backing out of the room but I must have made some sort of noise because Edward's eyes snapped open.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," I replied cautiously, halting my retreat. "And Jasper's waiting to see you."

"Fuck Jasper. I want to see you." Edward beckoned towards me.

I stood there looking at his hand for one long minute.

_This is it_, I thought. _Scene: They bid farewell_.

I didn't want to. I wanted anything but that.

Yet I didn't think that I had a choice.

Edward had already started to drop his arm—giving up I supposed—when I stepped towards him. I let him take one of my wrists in his fingers.

I expected him to let go of me right away, but he drew me towards him, tugging at me weakly as his hand slid down my wrist to grip my fingers.

His right arm was bound to his chest and his body was propped up slightly on the bed, tubing and wires running here and there.

I glanced at the screen of one of the machines. The readout was nothing but nonsense to me.

I didn't like it. Not at all. Edward was a person, a real person, flesh and blood, hooked up to plastic and electronics.

I knew that it was keeping him alive—but still.

I felt a sudden surge of irrational hatred for the lot of it. I wanted to take him right out of there. It was too _Metropolis._

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"You're the one who was shot," I pointed out, gazing down at our entwined hands. If it gave him comfort to hold my hand, then who was I to complain?

I wondered idly why it always bothered me so much when people touched me.

The old answer sprung to mind—I didn't like being touched because it made me feel sick. Cold. Angry.

Like when that son of a bitch that my mother had married—

_Yet when was the last time that you felt like that? _

I supposed that it just seemed like such a bore having people feign affection all of the time, with their embraces and handshakes and the like.

But did it make me feel _sick_? Did I feel that same old sense of dread whenever Angela, someone I actually liked, would give me a hug or Seth would grab my hand in excitement?

No.

At the worst, I was—_indifferent?_ At the best, I found it amusing. I was charmed by my friends' naïve notions. Did Angela actually think that a simple hug could fix everything?

I stared at Edward's fingers as he pulled me still closer to his bed.

_Why don't you like it when people touch you?_

I knew that I ought to be objecting to the intimacy of Edward's gesture. But why? Aside, of course, from our history, a history that I'd sworn no longer mattered. So why was my brain telling me to walk away?

_Because I don't like to feel._

I didn't like to _feel_? What did that even mean? Feel _what_?

I shook my head.

It wasn't disgust. There was a big difference between the horror that I remembered from so long ago and this—_this_ whatever it was.

Indifference?

I glanced up at Edward. It was like there was a wall between us. On my side, there was a sea of gray. Placid indifference. Safety. On his side—I didn't even know what really lay on his side. But it was _anything_ but indifferent.

It was swirling, violent, dangerous. And I was terrified.

I wanted to pull away because I was afraid of experiencing the feelings—whatever they were—that were invoked by the sensation of his touch.

Edward ran a finger along the red lines marring my wrists and finally broke the silence. "You were hurt too. And I didn't do a fucking thing to stop it."

I thought about that for a few seconds. "I was hardly any help myself," I admitted.

"You managed to delay Victoria until help could arrive."

I scoffed. "I couldn't even find my way upstairs! If Seth hadn't come, we would have died."

"I'm sure that it was a very complicated floor plan."

"It wasn't. I'm just geographically dyslexic."

Edward growled. "I just sat there, not doing anything while Victoria was waving a gun around. I was afraid of setting her off and getting you hurt."

"And I just climbed into your Porsche when it pulled up. Just like Tanya! I didn't even realize that you weren't the one who was driving until she'd locked the doors."

"I let them jump me." He snorted. "Secure garage my ass."

"I missed clues. I never told you about the animals. And I was getting letters too. I didn't tell the police about them until it was too late."

"Letters?" Edward sighed. "She was my cousin."

"You can't be held responsible for who you are related to. I've got a fucked up mother."

"Doesn't compare."

"You never met my step-father."

Edward held my gaze until I looked away, uneasy. "Bella, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault that Victoria—"

"I mean about everything. High school and everything else."

It seemed so nonsensical to discuss high school at a time like this. _But,_ I reasoned, _this is the last act of our made-for-tv movie._ This was the part where he was supposed to apologize and I was supposed to accept.

Could I? Could I accept his apology? Wouldn't that be the same thing as saying that everything he'd done didn't matter? That it was nothing?

That _I _was nothing?

"I don't feel sorry for you," I told him. "For getting shot. I mean, I feel _sorry_ for you, but it was your own decision. It doesn't make up for anything."

"I didn't say it did."

"It was _your_ decision," I repeated. "You didn't have to get shot."

"Yes I did."

"Because you think that you have to make up for high school. Like you owe me."

"I _do_ owe you, but that has nothing to do with getting shot. I couldn't—" Edward stopped. "I was so _angry_ at myself for getting you into that situation. If something had happened to you, I couldn't have lived with myself."

"So it _was_ because youfeel guilty—"

"Fucking Christ, Bella, how many fucking times do I have to say it? I want you."

I just stared at him, his last three word echoing in the room.

I could turn around and walk away. That was certainly what I always did whenever things threatened to become too personal. I pushed people away.

I looked at Edward. I _really _looked at him.

He looked like shit. Like utter shit.

And like a real person. Like everyone else. Skin and blood and bruises and scratches. Tired and worried. A fuck up. A human. Not some monster from the past. Not some Perseus come to kill the Gorgon. Just a person.

I could turn around and walk away, but a weight seemed to hold me in place. To pull me towards him, even with that wall standing between us.

But there was only one way that I could stay. It would cost me—really cost me. So unless I truly _wanted_ to stay, I should just turn around and go. Because staying would require an admission, the likes of which would mean that I was indeed bound to Edward. That he had the power to hurt me. That I _cared_ that he cared.

And there was still that wall standing between us. I wasn't sure that I could break through it or that I even wanted to. I didn't even know what was waiting for me on the other side.

_Which is it? _I asked myself. _Jane or Katherine? _Charlotte or Emily?

Yes, the Bronte sisters, for my life would always be conducted in accordance with the laws of the books that I read.

So I pondered the two options.

Oh, how I'd cursed the first time that I'd read _Jane Eyre. _I didn't care that Mr. Rochester was married. _To hell with propriety._

I was so much fonder of Katherine. She was fickle and cruel, yes, but wild and herself. Untamed.

Whereas Jane was a timid, placid creature. A slave to convention.

But now?

Now, if faced with Jane's dilemma, I'd walk out on Mr. Rochester too. Commonsense would make me go. _After all, what was his wife doing in that attic? He had to be culpable in some way. _

Yet the truth was that I had become more and more like Jane as I'd aged. Tiresome. Dreary.

And if faced with Katherine, I would have told her to stop weeping and grow up. To settle down.

The truth was that I had become a coward.

I didn't _want_ to be a coward. Always running. Always trying to disappear, like all of those years that I'd spent dodging everyone in high school. Trying to avoid everyone in college. Wishing that it could just be over.

I wasn't that girl anymore—that _girl_, that _child_. I was an adult. Wild, volatile. Untamed. _Katherine._ I didn't give a fuck what anyone thought of me. I wasn't going to run.

But that meant staying and facing the storm. That meant risking danger.

Even Jane had gone back in the end.

I opened my mouth and felt like gagging, the rush of emotion too much as I let myself feel the way Edward's fingers were burning into my skin as my limp hand suddenly returned his grip. I couldn't bear to look at him, choosing to study instead the circles that his thumb was making over my knuckles.

"You _hurt _me," I admitted sadly, almost whispering as I blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. There was a roaring in my ears and I felt like all of the hair on my body was standing on end.

"I'm _so sorry_," Edward replied, his own voice shaking.

And that didn't make any sense. I didn't believe him. Why should Edward care that he'd hurt me? So I hazarded a glance at his face. He looked heartbroken.

Yet he had to see how illogical it was. "How can I forgive you?" I asked, my words so soft that I wasn't sure that he could even hear me.

"I don't know. But _please_, please give me a chance."

"A chance for what?"

"For us."

It was too much. I needed to retreat. To throw the wall back up.

I tried to let go of his hand but he wouldn't let me. "What's in your I.V?" I joked feebly, but it sounded ridiculous even to me, my voice cracking. "Pretty strong stuff."

"I said all of this to you this morning and I wasn't on any pain meds then."

I felt a new rush of tears at his words and I shook my head, refusing to let them fall. "You just feel guilty," I observed brokenly. "You think that you have to fix me. But you don't. I like myself. I'm happy." And I wasn't lying. I _did _like myself. I liked _being _myself. Not caring about anyone else.

Which meant being by myself because I didn't trust anyone to like me back. I swallowed. I _wanted_ to be Katherine, but I _was_ Jane. I had to accept my limitations.

"I feel guilty, yes," Edward admitted. "I don't want to fix you though. I _like_ you the way you are."

Sniffing awkwardly, I tried to convince him. "You don't know what you're talking about. I don't work right."

"I don't fucking believe that."

He was lying to make me feel better. "It's true," I hazarded another glance at him. "I'm crazy. And weird." Which was fine with me. Really. Because I couldn't change. Not for anyone. "And I don't know how to do—whatever it is you think you are doing." Which wasn't fine with me, though I wouldn't admit it. Because I wanted him to want me just the way I was.

"I've been told that I'm pretty weird myself."

"It's not the same thing."

Edward dropped my hand and touched my face, studying my eyes. And I didn't pull away, because I knew that this was it. This was the end of the story. "Bella, did you feel anything when we kissed?"

"What?" I asked, dropping my eyes again and beginning to draw away, but he grabbed my hand again.

"When I kissed you, did you feel anything at all? Because if not, then fine, I'll leave you alone. But if you felt the slightest twinge of attraction for me then give me a chance. I'll prove to you that I deserve you."

I brushed the tears off of my cheeks, determined to put an end to this. It was a mistake. "It won't work," I said. It would be better to leave now. Cut my losses.

"I don't have a wife in the attic."

I froze. "A wife in the attic?"

"Like in _Jane Eyre_."

"You know _Jane Eyre_?"

"Michael Fassbender. Remember, we talked about him at the gallery?"

The gallery. My pictures.

Pictures which Edward currently had sitting in his apartment.

And why would he have purchased them unless—?

I felt like I was standing on a precipice. I could jump off. Or I could retreat to the safe world that I knew.

I was terrified.

Retreat meant sanity. Placidity.

To jump meant emotions. Sensations. Things which I'd only experienced before because of a book.

_Living_ instead of just _reading_. Was it possible?

I looked at Edward again, at the strange ways in which his features were stuck together. People were such peculiar creatures. I had never studied anyone too closely in person, never wanting to intrude, never wanting that intimacy.

I slowly raised a hand, paused, and then ran a finger over a bruise on his cheek. "Does it hurt?" I asked.

"Only if you walk out that door."

That didn't make any sense. "You're not being logical."

"Logic's overrated."

That was just nonsense. I was going to tell him so, too, but before I could, he drew me gently towards him and I _let_ him.

_He hasn't much strength_, I told myself. _Don't make him struggle_.

Which was bullshit because I knew what he was doing as he—_Katherine didn't do so well in the end,_ I warned myself at the last second—drew me towards him and kissed me—though really, since I was the one leaning over him, I was kissing him—while the beeping from one of the machines in the room sped in time with—

With my own heart.

Instinctively, I raised my hands to push Edward away, gently, of course, expecting my flight response to kick in—

But suddenly his lips were parting—

And I was shuddering.

_What demon is this?_

An assault on my reason.

My hands were barely grazing the rough fabric of his hospital gown but I could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric.

_A wicked delight where I expected anything but._

I gasped in surprise. And then I was breathing his breath.

_Some frisson of horror expected here—ghouls and ghosts and—_

He groaned aloud with—_dear God_—with pleasure?

_But no, no, this isn't horror, this is—_

I _knew_ this sensation.

_Wanton lust._

I'd felt it many a time. In an auction house or an antique bookshop. My eyes glimpsing for the first time the spine of some unobtainable lovely, the white leather flesh of an incunabula with the chain fixed to its binding hanging loose, the locks with which the owners had once secured the book all undone, the contents open for exploration, the pages honeyed with age just begging for me to touch them.

I could feel the warmth of Edward's breath and the bristle beginning to sprout along his jawline and I could smell—above the scent of hospital disinfectant—the smell of Edward's aftershave and I could hear the hammering of my blood over the beeping of the machines in his room.

And Edward wasn't even a book.

_I want him,_ I realized. He was pulling me closer towards him and I was clutching the front of his hospital gown even as I warned myself not to hurt him.

I felt like I was burning alive. I thought that I could go on kissing him forever except that I wanted—

_More._

That was, until his hand slid to the side of my head, where there was a bruise from when—Riley, I supposed—had struck me.

"Ow!" I pulled away, wincing from the pain and from my embarrassment over what I had just done.

What _had _I done?

"Fuck! I'm sorry! I forgot." Edward breathed roughly.

I dropped my eyes.

"I'm _sorry_," Edward repeated, the pain in his voice obvious.

That wasn't it. I shook my head. "This isn't _me_." I couldn't help the way that my voice shook.

"You don't—" he paused. "You didn't feel anything?"

I did. Dear God I did. But I didn't know how to be that person. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"That's fucking crazy."

It _was _fucking crazy, because Katherine had fucking destroyed Heathcliff. I was better off on my own where I couldn't hurt anyone.

Because I could feel it in me. Something bestial. I wanted to tear Edward apart. All of the emotion that I'd been suppressed for so long—I couldn't have just part of it. I had to take all of it.

I wanted him. And I wanted to destroy him.

With him gone, I could go back to being myself. With him around, I'd have to change.

"You don't have to be afraid," he said.

_Afraid?_ Who the fuck did he think he was?

"You know me," he continued.

Did I? I knew who he seemed to be now, but did I know the real him?

"I want—" I cleared my throat. "Part of me hates you," I admitted.

He didn't say anything.

"The other part. Doesn't."

It was the best that I could do for now. Fortunately, Edward seemed to accept it.

After a long minute, he took my chin in his hand and angled my head so that he could peer at the lump that had formed on the side. "What did the doctor say?" he asked.

"I don't know. I walked out of the examination," I said, feeling incredibly awkward. I hadn't expected things to turn out this way, even if I'd secretly wanted it.

"You _walked _out?!" Edward drew away, his eyes wide with shock.

"It was boring," I replied quickly, thankful for the change in conversation. _This_ I understood. _This_ made sense.

"It was _boring?_"

"You know that I don't like doctors!" I retorted. I might not be able to kiss Edward without turning into a basket case, but I could argue with him. I was, if I dared say so, quite skilled at it.

"You're going to march down there right now and finish your examination."

"Excuse me?"

Edward was being irrational. It wasn't like I was the one who'd been shot.

"You could have a concussion."

"Then I'll do whatever you're supposed to do when you have a concussion. That's why God invented Google."

"You could have a brain bleed."

"Then why didn't they just send me for a brain scan instead of babbling at me and making me describe my so-called _injuries_ over and over again? It's bad enough that I have to be questioned by the police. Must I face an Inquisition in the ER as well?"

"It's procedure."

"It's the hospital trying to drum up charges."

Unsurprisingly, our conversation quickly escalated. It wasn't long before a nurse interrupted us and asked me to leave.

Edward made me agree to check in at the ER before I left.

I walked out of his room without making any other promises beyond a vow to return the following day…which, since it was almost two o'clock in the morning, meant returning in a few hours.

I certainly didn't promise him anything one way or another about—about _what had happened between us._

**AN: **

_I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing. What wholesome has ripened is wholesome food to eat, And that alone. – Yeats_

_Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world. – Tennyson _

**Rec: When Bunnies Attack by Catastrophia **Flighty Bunny obsessed writer Bella and IT business owner Edward. A tale of plot bunnies, fate, flashlights, and lol. Short chapters and laughs. Rated M E/B OOC AH Twilight - Rated: M - English - Humor/Romance - Chapters: 9 - Words: 16,672 - Reviews: 449 - Favs: 297 - Follows: 390 - Updated: Nov 11, 2012 - Published: Aug 30, 2011 - Bella, Edward


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: Meyer owns characters. I own plot.**

Chapter 24

"_I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free." – Emily Bronte_

I didn't have a concussion or a brain bleed. So they let me go home with Seth. My father and Seth had instructions to check on me every few hours. Not that they needed to. I slept for no more than thirty minutes at a stretch, huddled on Seth's sofa with my father snoring in the recliner.

My thoughts were on a loop. Victoria—Edward—Bree. I'd fall asleep only to jerk awake with the memory of Edward's kiss.

There was no point in trying to sleep. I wondered if Seth would mind if I cleaned his oven.

What was I going to do about Edward?

What was I doing in general?

The next morning, I went to the police precinct and recounted the events that had transpired after I'd climbed into Edward's Porsche the previous afternoon.

Then I went to the hospital. Edward still wasn't supposed to have too many visitors at once, so Seth, Esme and I passed the time waiting by piecing the whole story together: In the face of suffering, the human mind seeks to find meaning, even if that explanation is mere speculation, because otherwise (in the absence of an explanation) you're left with nothing but the conclusion that life is shit.

And it occurred to me, as our explanation unfolded, that maybe there was really something to the value of a story, even if there were still holes, because as the explanation took shape, it felt less and less like something that I was just hearing, and more like something in which I might have played a part. I took the food that Alice offered—for the gang was all there, my father, Seth, Alice, Jasper and the Cullens, all of us taking turns to keep Edward company. I threw in a comment here and there, telling them what I knew, and the hours passed.

We decided that Victoria was indeed the daughter of Esme's sister, Elizabeth, and Charles, Esme's ex-fiancé. Charles, who was no doubt abusive, must have told Victoria all about Esme. And Victoria had blamed Esme for abandoning her. Victoria fixated on Edward, imagining that he had everything that she wanted.

Jasper joined into the effort to weave the explanation then, because he remembered the raven-haired woman—a wig disguising her natural red hair—who'd moved to Forks right before he left for Texas. He remembered how she'd started following Edward, Jasper and James around. She'd claimed that she was interested in James but we knew now that she was just trying to get close to Edward. She'd even tried to hook up with Jasper, but she'd scared the shit out of him with her games, always fooling around with a switchblade that she carried everywhere and encouraging James to pull stupid stunts.

The police had dropped enough hints for us to gather that the police now believed that Victoria had left the party at First Beach the day of Tanya's murder, had stolen Edward's car, had driven to Port Angeles and had killed Tanya before returning to the party and attacking Eric.

Edward's hair had been found in the cabin—either planted there intentionally or accidentally picked up from his car. But there was no way that Victoria could have known that she was going to run in to Tanya that day, right? So it was a crime of chance. Unless she and Tanya had planned to meet up, and it was only the fact that Victoria was in Edward's car that was a matter of chance.

If they met by chance, once Tanya realized that it wasn't Edward driving the car, why hadn't she tried to get out? It would have been difficult for Victoria to subdue Tanya while they were both in the car, especially while still in the more developed section of Port Angeles.

We speculated about possible stories that Victoria might have offered Tanya, and finally put together a version that we thought might have worked: Perhaps Victoria had told Tanya the truth about being related to Edward. Victoria had the same hair color as Edward and was driving his car—proof enough, possibly, that she was telling the truth. And Victoria might very well have claimed to be operating on Edward's behalf, saying that she knew that he wanted to reconcile with Tanya but that he wouldn't make the first move, so Victoria was going to force his hand by bringing Tanya to him and leaving them together, stranded without a car. Once they arrived at the cabin and Edward didn't appear, Victoria must have struck Tanya, incapacitating her enough for Victoria to proceed with her "game." Then Victoria had gone back to Forks and, either returning Edward's car and then phoning the police or vice versa, and finally reappearing on First Beach.

A month later, Victoria had followed Edward to Dartmouth, ostensibly trailing behind her boyfriend, James, who was also attending Dartmouth.

The last Jasper had heard, James was in jail and Victoria had disappeared.

We could only guess as to Victoria's activities since then. Had she just followed Edward around? Was she the one who'd sent me the letters? Why had she waited so long to lash out at the two of us?

Whatever the case, seeing Edward with me again had clearly pushed Victoria over the edge. I was sure that she was the one responsible for the dead animals on my doorstep and the break-in at the university. She'd killed Bree, either with or without Riley's assistance, trying to stir up suspicion of Edward once more, or else because she thought that it would hurt me, or maybe because she was just fucking crazy. I couldn't imagine what she could have possibly said to Riley, but somehow, she had manipulated him into helping her kidnap Edward, and the two of them had driven to the university to find me.

Had I showed even a modicum of sense, I probably would have eluded their grasp. But then Edward would have been on his own and they would have just found another opportunity to come for me.

What had they planned to do with the two of us? Were they just going to kill us?

Jasper suggested that they had hoped to make it look as if Edward had murdered me and then taken his own life. I had ruined that plan, of course, when I "escaped." Enraged, Victoria and Riley had made Edward come with them as they searched for me, not realizing that Seth had already, illicitly, entered the building.

A _deus ex machina_ if ever there was one, Seth was there in pursuit of some new depth of urban squalor to satisfy his sudden yen for steampunk gothic, the warren of abandoned warehouses just like a maze of ruined cathedrals, I supposed, with the light shining down through the broken windows as if through stained glass and the convoluted pipes and stonework resembling arches and naves.

Seth explained that he thought that the warehouse was empty, and when he heard the voices, he hid, afraid of being arrested for trespassing. When he overheard enough to realize that he'd stumbled upon a kidnapping, he crept down one of the hallways and phoned the police. They told him to wait until help arrived, but he didn't think that they would make it in time. Sending an emergency text to Alice to call him back, he set down his phone and crept around to the other side of the open workspace. When the phone went off, Seth threw himself at Victoria, effectively saving my life.

I only got to see Edward briefly, in Jasper's company. The staff kept throwing Edward's visitors out of the room, insisting that he needed his rest. So I stood quietly by while Jasper updated Edward on the progress of the case. Riley had been arrested and the police were following with James to find out what he knew.

"Hey," Edward said, smiling at me.

"Hey," I said back, happy to see him doing so well. I didn't know what I was doing but I was going to try.

Edward had to stay in the hospital another day, but when I came the following morning it was with the knowledge that he would be allowed to have more visitors. A good thing too, because had I brought along my entire collection of _Buffy, Angel, _and _Supernatural_. A total of twenty-one seasons.

It was a test. I didn't pretend it wasn't, at least to myself.

I told him that it was simply "crucial" viewing for anyone wanting to be learned in the ways of tv horror, which was true of course. I was just looking out for him.

Edward made room for me to sit next to him in his hospital bed as we watched. I told him that I didn't think I was supposed to sit there. He said that he was too afraid to watch without me right by his side. I didn't think that was true, but he cajoled me into agreeing. So I climbed carefully onto the bed next to him, stretching my limbs out so as to avoid accidentally jostling him. I couldn't help tensing up the first time a nurse came in, but Edward threw an arm around my shoulders and greeted the fellow in yellow scrubs with a smile. And such was Edward's professed pleasure over the entertainment on the screen that I did not object when he grabbed hold of my hand or kissed the back of it whenever Buffy, Angel or Dean (and Sam, blah) saved the world from demons.

I should have known better than to play the episode about the invisible girl who tried to kill Cordelia. "Look, about high school," Edward started but I cut him off.

"It's in the past," I said.

He looked at me warily. "Really?"

I nodded.

I didn't want to talk about high school.

Because I knew what would happen if I had to.

I let him kiss me before I left. Almost like a science experiment. Because I had already started with _The_ _Tests_.

Maybe I wouldn't_ run_, per se, but I'd still push him away if I could.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

We ended up skipping Homecoming, thank fucking God, the two of us laying on the injured party/PTSD routine thick enough for Alice to accept our excuses.

My townhouse was fine, even if it was some time before I could make myself go through the front door without thinking about all of the presents that had been left for me.

I didn't care how fucking superstitious it seemed, or if I was channeling my mother, I said _Yes_ when Sue asked me if I wanted her to come to Seattle and burn some sage for me. She blessed that motherfucking doorstep for all it was worth. And I felt better when she was done, even if I told Edward and Alice and Seth that I was only letting her do it because she'd started dating my father. I reminded them, too, that I was eight percent Cherokee and that it would be, at the very least, uncouth to talk shit about my people's traditions. They wisely chose not to mention that the Cherokee and the Quileute were entirely different tribes with entirely different traditions.

As for my father, he was, as one might expect, beyond pissed that I'd put myself at risk, as he put it. And he was none too pleased to realize that _something_—the vagueness of the term required because I refused to define the exact nature of our relationship for my father or anyone else who asked—was going on between me and _that boy_.

The fact that my life had been saved by _that boy_ only went so far since, according to my father, it was Edward's fault that my life was danger in the first place.

I asked him if it was Esme's fault that Charles had hit her, since that was really the root of all of this. He didn't have a response for that.

Riley pleaded out, which meant that his sentence was lighter than it might have been, but it also meant that we didn't have to go to trial. The DA had Riley dead to rights on the kidnapping charges, but the case was much weaker when it came to Bree's murder, so offering him a plea bargain was really the best way to go.

Bree's parents were inconsolable. They blamed me for not going to the police about the letters when they first started arriving, and I couldn't argue with them on that. So what if the police wouldn't have taken me seriously? I should have tried.

The police never located the original letters, but I managed to recall all of the quotes. I went over them again and again, looking for a pattern. For surely there was a reference to Esme here:

'_That is the picture of a wretched ancestress of mine, of whose crimes a black and fearful catalogue is recorded in a family history in my charter-chest. The recital of them would be too horrible; it is enough to say, that in yon fatal apartment incest and unnatural murder were committed.' – Sir Walter Scott _

And this too was clear enough:

'_Revenge!—the word seemed balm to me; I hugged it, caressed it, till, like a serpent, it stung me.' Mary Shelley_

But what was I meant to do with passages like this:

'_Ask what you please, and I will tell you everything. But my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness.' Sheridan LeFanu_

Were they just cries for help? Yes, of course they were. Should I have seen them as such? If I had gone to the police, was there any possibility that the police would have connected them to Victoria?

Edward said that I shouldn't bother trying to make sense of the senseless, that it was a function of insanity to be illogical. He was right, but what else could I do? The guilt over Bree's death gnawed at me, and I wanted an explanation. So I continued to take the letters out every few weeks, hoping that I would see something new. I didn't.

The DA told us that Charles was dead and that Victoria had gone into foster care at the age of ten when she was removed from Charles' care by CPS. She had run away from a group home at the age of sixteen. We knew that she'd shown up in Forks four years later, ostensibly looking for her aunt. Esme would have taken her in, but Victoria never bothered knocking on the Cullens' door.

Victoria's behavior thereafter was erratic at best. She had probably stolen Edward's Volvo that day for a joyride, with no intention of killing anyone. If she'd really intended to frame Edward for Tanya's murder, she certainly could have done a better job of setting him up. Even if the murder wasn't premeditated, she could have left some blood in his room, or given his name when she called from _The Lodge_. If the murder _was _premeditated, she could have taken some article of clothing from his house before going, for instance, then left it there when she returned, covered in Tanya's blood.

Was she methodically carrying out some well-planned plot to avenge herself against the Cullens? Or was she acting solely on impulse, without strategy or a clear line of attack? If the latter, what was it about Tanya that had set her off? Tanya and Edward had already broken up. Was that it—Victoria acting out of some sick sense of loyalty to a family that she hated, too used to betrayal and abandonment to put up with Tanya's treatment of Edward? No. Victoria was too filled with hatred for that. Victoria despised Tanya because Tanya was the object of Edward's affections, at least for a time. She couldn't destroy Edward, so she'd settled for Tanya.

There were only a few W-2s here and there to show what Victoria had been doing in the decade since Tanya's death. Nothing suggested a coherent pattern, though she seemed to remain within the general vicinity the Edward.

The police questioned James, who was still in jail, about his role in Tanya's death, but he denied everything, unwilling to even admit that he'd told Victoria that Edward was off hiking that day. But how else could Victoria have known how to get into Edward's house and how to find the keys to the Volvo? Unfortunately, the DA decided that the evidence wasn't strong enough to consider prosecuting James as an accomplice.

Edward berated himself for not realizing the connection between James' girlfriend and the murder sooner. Since learning of his cousin, Edward had followed up with a PI who was in the midst of sending Edward a file when Edward was kidnapped. This file indicated that the baby's name was Victoria. The very name that the police had given to Edward as one of the aliases that James' girlfriend was using when James was arrested for drug dealing.

Of course, the police had informed the Denalis of all of the developments in Tanya's case. As a result, Tanya's family stopped blaming Edward for Tanya's death. That is, they stopped blaming him personally. Instead, they now blamed the Cullens as a whole. Apparently, the Denalis weren't as considerate as my father when it came to not blaming Esme for all of the times that Charles had hit her.

Aro Denali even tried to bring a civil suit against Edward's mother. It never made it to court.

I considered trying to see Irene again, and even befriending Kate. After all, I was now acquainted with lots of people that I never would have considered befriending once upon a time.

I went back to the strip club where Kate had been working but she wasn't there anymore. I asked Edward to see if his PI could find her. He got as far as a bus terminal in Mexico.

I knew better than to ask Aro to have me added to his daughter's list of visitors in the mental health clinic.

Personally, it wasn't as easy to go back to my life as I'd thought it would be. Guilt over Bree's death aside, there was the realization that Victoria had been keeping tabs on me, perhaps watching me, for years. The police found photographs of Edward and I in her apartment going back a decade. I had always felt so insignificant. The certainty that I was invisible had been a comfort at times. I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted because no one cared.

Except that someone _had_ cared. Someone _had _been watching.

I found myself casting a wary glance over my shoulder now and then. How had I been so oblivious?

And on top of all of that, I found myself facing an unprecedented problem, the likes of which seemed damn near insurmountable much of the time.

I didn't know how to date. I told Edward this and he replied that we weren't dating. We were hanging out.

And kissing.

We had nothing in common. I told Edward that, so he made a list of the things we had in common. He included absurd things, like our bodies being made up of seventy percent water, so I said that he was full of shit.

I said that he only wanted me because he was broken. That a whole and healthy Edward wouldn't want me.

The night I told him that, he stood outside on the doorstep of my townhouse until I let him back inside.

Several weeks later, we were watching _Ugetsu_.

"What's your favorite horror movie?" Edward asked. I think that he wanted to distract me from the movie. It was getting creepy.

"I hate that movie," I told him.

"What?"

"_Scream_. You know '_What's your favorite scary movie?_' It was okay the first time around, but now it just makes me want to scream, literally. Which is perhaps the point. Except that I have an awesome idea for a _Scream-Decameron_ mash-up which I plan to sell to Hollywood someday. It's my idea though. You can't take it." I glared at him. "I mean it. I'll hurt you."

"No I mean it—what's your favorite horror movie?"

"_Juon 1_ or _2_ or _The Cut._"

"Why don't we watch those?"

I looked at him dubiously. "You probably won't like them."

"Why not?"

"They're not—they're not like American horror movies." I was feeling strangely defensive. For some reason, I really, really, didn't want to watch these movies with him.

"I've seen _The Grudge._ How different could it be?"

I pursed my lips. "The originals are a bit more—cerebral." That had been enough to put off Seth. Alice and Angela didn't do horror. Jane had already seen them.

Edward paused the movie. "You think I'm stupid?"

I thought it wise to say nothing. I wasn't sure why I was feeling so anxious, but I _was_ sure that Edward wouldn't understand.

Why his failure to understand would bother me was not something that I wanted to explore however.

"Seriously, why can't we watch them?"

I shrugged. "I just don't think you'll like them."

"You don't trust me," Edward said.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't trust me. Not really. We keep going around like this, going out to dinner, watching movies, but you don't trust me. I'm always the one who has to ask if you want to do something and even when you say _Yes_ you say it like you actually think I'm going to back out. You're just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"You got all that from me saying that I don't want to watch a movie with you?" I couldn't quite believe that this conversation was happening. Was I or was I not trying? Who the fuck was he to be calling me on this? Besides, we were supposed to be watching _Ugetsu_. One of the fundamental movies in the horror genre. If he couldn't make it through this what made him think that he could make it through _The Cut_?

"Why don't you want to watch them with me?"

I stared at him, an odd tightness in my chest and a burning in the back of my eyes. "You want to watch them?" I snapped. "Fine." I stood up and pushed the eject button on the DVD player. "We'll watch them."

I put _Juon 1_ in first and sat back down on the sofa, on the far side of the sofa, well away from the asshole, and crossed my arms. _Motherfucker_. At least he hadn't made the mistake of asking if dubbing was available. He'd learned _that _lesson already.

When the credits were rolling at the end, I glared over at him. "Well? Are you ready for the second one now?"

"Put it in."

I put it in alright.

By the time the second one was over, I wasn't as irrationally angry. But I was still irrationally anxious. It was one o'clock in the morning.

"Do you want to watch the last one now?" I asked.

"Put it in," he said.

I put it in.

When it was over, Edward looked over at me. "Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" I was tapping my foot against the sofa cushion, my emotions bouncing all over the place, which was ridiculous. What did I have to be nervous about? Who cared if he liked them? He was a fucking idiot if he didn't. I didn't need his approval.

"What if I didn't like them?" he asked.

I gaped at him. "Impossible."

"And if I did like them?"

I didn't know what to say.

The truth was that I didn't want him to like them. They were mine. And I didn't want him to have any part of them. Of me.

"Why don't you trust me?" he asked.

I shook my head. The question made no sense. How could I trust him?

"Why don't you want to talk about high school?" he pushed.

I huffed. "What does this have to do with high school?"

"You still don't trust me."

"Of course I don't trust you."

Even though he'd been the one to suggest it, my admission seemed to take him by surprise. Edward looked at me for a minute, then nodded. "Because of high school."

I didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry for every cruel thing that I ever said."

I started to shake my head—because I didn't care what he'd once said—I was over it, wasn't I? But he stopped me.

"It's not fair," Edward said. "I don't mean that _you_'re not fair. I know it's my fault. I want to be angry at you for not giving me a chance, and I can't, because I don't deserve a chance. If you want to cut me off, that's your choice and I can't even fight back. But I wish you'd give me a chance."

"I am giving you a chance," I said softly.

"No you're not."

"You're here, aren't you?"

"It doesn't mean a thing though if you won't let us talk about the real problem."

"The real problem?"

"High school."

"What is there to say?" I asked. I felt tears welling up. _I would not cry. I would not._

"That I'm sorry."

"You've already said that."

"That I hurt you."

"And I've already said _that_. It's all been said already."

"Only in passing. We haven't really discussed it."

"What more do you want to talk about?"

"How I made you feel."

"Like hell," my voice broke. "You made me feel like hell. What's the point of going into that?"

"I don't know, but I do know that you haven't really forgiven me."

"How could I forgive you?"

Edward looked at me.

I shook my head, tears blurring my eyes. "See? Now what? Now you'll go and what was the point of that? I _told_ you it was pointless."

"I don't want to go."

"Then don't." I wiped my tears away and steeled my jaw, refusing to let any others fall.

"What about me?" he asked.

_What the fuck? _"What? Are you going to tell me that I somehow hurt you?" I demanded.

"No, I mean, tell me what you need me to do in order to forgive me."

I shook my head. "I don't know. I don't know what you could possibly do to make up for what you did."

"I could explain."

"How could you possibly explain being a monster?"

"A mistake. Haven't you ever done something and it was like you were watching yourself from outside, and you don't even know why you did it?"

"A mistake is something you do once. When you do it over and over again it becomes a choice."

"You get used to it. And then you don't know how to do anything else. Even if you don't mean it."

"You knew what you were doing to me. Don't lie. You knew." I scoffed.

"Kids are callous," Edward argued. "They're stupid. They don't know what life means. They've never seen someone die."

"And people were so much nicer to each other a hundred years ago? Surrounded by death? I don't think so."

"So maybe people are naturally monsters. What matters is that I've changed. I'm not like that anymore."

I remembered all of those times back in high school, when I'd sat in the meadow, thinking about all of the different ways that I could kill myself. It had been like watching myself from the outside—just Edward said, though in an entirely different context—only I'd never acted on my thoughts, and I was only going to hurt myself, not someone else. "I don't understand how you could do that to someone," I said. "It's like that time we were doing the psychology unit in Mr. Banner's class and we watched those monsters from the Milgram experiment and all you fuckers said that you understood them." I looked at him. Did he remember that day in class? "What the _fuck_ was wrong with all of you? I would _never_ have done what Milgram made those people do. Say _no_. It's not that hard Edward. _No._ Stop being a fucking sheep."

Edward shook his head. "Has it ever occurred to you that you wouldn't do something like that because you've been on the receiving end? That maybe it's easier for you to say _no_ and stand out from the crowd because you're used to not fitting in? It's harder for other people, even if it's for a just cause. People aren't necessarily born with a moral compass."

"Don't give me that killer ape shit. Altruism has been just as important, if not more important, in the evolution of humans as the killer instinct. People _help _people. They help people they're not even related to. They do it for no reason at all. They do it even when it means hurting themselves."

"Not everyone's just good. Sometimes they have to learn it."

I laughed. A bitter, twisted sound. "You're blaming Carlisle and Esme now? You've clearly never met my mother. Your parents walk on water as far as I'm concerned."

"I'm not blaming my parents but I'm saying that I've changed."

"Ha!"

"You don't think that I've changed?"

I sighed and looked away from him, not willing to meet his eye. "I think that you've changed," I admitted, because it was true, not because I'd forgiven him.

"And I'd like to think that our children will be like you, not me."

My head snapped up.

"Not 'fucking sheep,' as you put it."

"I'm not having kids," I told him.

Edward blinked. "You're not?"

"I'd fuck 'em up."

"I don't think so," he demurred.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"And a sheep," he tried to joke. "Don't forget a sheep."

"I thought you were trying to change that. Trying not to be a sheep anymore," I said, because he _had_ said as much, not because I was trying to make light.

"Trying."

I didn't know where we were supposed to go from here.

"Where do we go from here?" he asked.

"You started this," I reminded him.

"Should I tell you what I thought of the movies?"

"If you say that you didn't like them, I'll hurt you," I warned him.

"Am I allowed to admit that they confused me?" he inquired cautiously.

"All great art should be confusing. If it makes sense then it's boring."

"So everything that confuses me is great art?"

"No. Some of it's pretentious posing."

"How do you tell the difference?"

"I just know."

"Is that something you're born with?"

I shrugged.

"_The Cut_ has really nice sets," Edward decided.

"It does," I agreed.

"Really fucking disturbing though. All three. Like I might not sleep."

"It's almost morning anyhow."

"Are you tired?" Edward asked.

I nodded.

Edward pressed the power on the remote control for the television. "Oh no," he said. "The electricity's off. Remember what happened the last time this occurred?"

"The lights are still on."

He turned off the lamp over the sofa.

"The hall light's still on," I pointed out.

"But it is cold," he pointed out. There was no jest in his voice, even though I knew exactly what he was doing. He sounded tired, not arrogant. His tone conciliatory.

"It's not that cold," I noted, my tone just as soft. I_ was_ tired. And I didn't want him to go, irrational though that sounded.

"No reason to chance it."

"We could put on more clothes," I suggested.

"We should probably stay together, though. Conserve heat."

"I don't think that really works."

"It totally works," Edward explained sincerely.

"No. I think it's an old wives tale."

"I'm a doctor. I know about these things."

"I'm a kicker," I confessed.

"I think I can take you."

"I'm probably a biter too."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem."

No, we hadn't settled anything. But was this really the sort of thing that could be settled with mere words?

We fell asleep together on the sofa wrapped in a throw, our clothes in place.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Of course, I was still a spaz.

After one particularly disastrous dinner, during which my contributions had varied between nonsensical ramblings and painful silence, I admitted that I didn't know what to say to Edward or how to be with him, and he said that I didn't have to say or do anything. I could just be.

What did that mean? I was used to "just being" by myself. With no one else around. Whenever I was around other people, I was acting. Trying to be sociable, even if I wasn't very good at it. I didn't know how to "just be" with someone else there.

Seeing Jasper and Alice together made it worse, because they had such a natural way with each other. They were so comfortable in one another's company, whereas I was still struggling not to be awkward.

Alice asked me why I was comparing myself to other people when I always said that I didn't want to be a sheep.

I kept waiting for Edward to tell me that he was done, that he couldn't handle me and my hot-and-cold moods and my temperamental displays, always pushing and pulling.

Realizing that I was in over my head, I went to the library and came home with a slew of self-help books. _Emotional IQ_ and_ Dating for Dummies._ According to the quizzes, I had a problem expressing my feelings. Which is to say that I had no problem with sarcasm, because it was hostility, even if it was masked as a joke so that I could pretend that I hadn't meant it. Otherwise I tended to keep my mouth shut until I was so overwhelmed that my feelings just came tumbling out, at which point everything, absolutely every crime that I'd tallied up against a person, would be called up as evidence. But the occasions on which I really lost my temper were few and far between. When I was upset with someone, with Edward for instance, my first inclination was to run, because I certainly couldn't tell him how I felt. Doing so would imply that I had some faith in him giving a shit about me and my feelings. Much better to just go off by myself until I could pretend that I wasn't upset.

The same thing went for affection—it was much better to deny feeling anything at all. Because you certainly couldn't count on people reciprocating.

"Why can't you just tell me when you're upset?" Edward asked.

"How do I know that I'm not overreacting?" I countered. And I was right. Wasn't it better to just let it ride?

"Just tell me," he said.

"I'll try," I promised, kind of lying.

"So what do you want to for dinner?" he asked.

"Whatever you want to do."

"Don't you have an opinion?"

"I'm sure whatever you decide will be fine."

The books said that my indifference suggested either a lack of commitment on my part or a submissiveness that was, at worst, perverse, and at best, just sad.

"There's an antiquarian book fair next weekend," I told Edward. "You can come if you want. It'll probably be boring. You don't have to come."

He not only attended the fair with me, he showed genuine interest in the displays even when, for all he knew, I wasn't watching him.

There was a seventeenth century copy of the _Malleus Maleficarum_ on exhibition, which I was too shy to ask about, having been struck by one of those attacks of anxiety that are so irrational and yet so impossible to ignore.

Edward caught my sidelong glance at the volume in question and took me by the hand.

"Can we look at it?" he asked, approaching the stern-looking fellow overseeing the display.

"Sure," the fellow said, like it was nothing at all, and I got to actually _touch_ the _Malleus Maleficarum_.

When I'd be getting ready to see Edward—to "hang out"— I would sometimes catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I'd wonder what the fuck I was doing. As if I had somehow betrayed myself. As if I'd left that girl who I'd once been behind in that meadow to die because she wasn't worthwhile after all—a rag doll whose seams had all torn and whose stuffing was half-gone.

Whenever I felt like this, I'd go and change into a ridiculous outfit that I'd bought at a thrift shop, like it was a test. _Do you want me like this?_ I'd put on a pill box hat with a skull and a veil. _Would you take me like this? _

He'd just eye these outfits of mine and smirk. He passed my tests, every fucking time.

But there were still times when I told myself that I couldn't really relate to someone who hadn't had a fucked up childhood, who'd never thought of killing himself. That it was too much like we were speaking different languages with no interpreter.

I'd turn vicious, mean. Say cruel things to Edward just to see if he thought they were funny, because "normal" people never got stuff like that.

Then I'd feel guilty, because that wasn't me. I wasn't intentionally mean.

Then I'd realize that it was _Edward_ who was bringing these things out in me. Not that it was Edward's fault, but that being with Edward was changing me, that it was making me do things that I wouldn't usually do. That I was doing things just to see if I could. And I hated it.

Those were the times when I wanted to hide. Thankfully, Edward wouldn't let me. At least not for long.

I didn't find out until later that he was just biding his time. That I was scaring the shit out of him with the self-destructive things that I'd say sometimes and that he was hoping that it was all just a bump in the road.

There were times when I wanted nothing but Edward and was afraid to admit it because I knew that he couldn't possibly reciprocate the strength of my feelings and because, perhaps worst still, I was afraid that I was disappearing. As if I'd look down at myself one day and suddenly discover that I was wearing a poodle skirt that I didn't remember putting on, with a string of pearls around my neck choking the life out of me, having somehow turned into the kind of person who was always proper and always faking, because really I was just a Sally without a Jack, limping sadly along while I babbled inanely.

It didn't quite fit, this new me. It was too hard to discern the lines between things, between the old me—all the _Old Me_s—and the _New Me_s, and between me and Edward. I was constantly second-guessing myself. Should I have pretended that I was busy when he wanted me to have dinner with the Chief of Emergency Surgery? Was I embarrassing him? Did I give up too much? Was he not giving up enough? Was I doing enough to show that I cared? How did I know that I really cared and wasn't just going through the motions? How did I know that he cared? Should I have invited him to that faculty dinner?

"Just turn it off," Edward said to me when I finally admitted everything that I was thinking.

I didn't understand.

"Stop thinking," he explained.

"How can I stop thinking? That's impossible."

"Just feel."

I thought he was fucking crazy. Self-help books aside, how could a person just let herself give into her feelings? Turn off her brain? Emotions were traitorous, untrustworthy things. My own feelings towards Edward were widely changeable. Much better to analyze a situation rationally.

Rationally, Edward and I didn't belong together.

I decided not to argue the case. I knew that I probably wouldn't win. Everyone always thought emotions were more important than logic, which was nonsense of course.

But I _was_ gradually growing more comfortable around Edward.

Eventually, I stopped trying to pick fights and only dressed like a fool when it pleased me, not because I was trying to test him.

And when I tried to analyze _that_ development rationally, I supposed that Edward was proving that he'd changed and I was learning to trust him.

Meanwhile, the hand that I was used to keeping on Edward's chest when we kissed crept up to the back of his neck instead, and I found out that he liked it when I pulled on his hair.

I found out then that Edward had his own doubts. He admitted that he was terrified that I would want to hurt myself one day. I said that I wasn't that person anymore and probably never would be again. He didn't understand how I ever could have considered it. I said that there was no way to explain it to someone who'd never gone through it. He said that was a bullshit copout and that suicide had to be the most selfish act on the planet. I said that he was a judgmental son of a bitch.

He said that he was afraid of losing me.

And how could I argue with that?

We went back to Forks for his parents' wedding anniversary, and even though there was snow on the ground, we went to the meadow, _our _meadow now.

We sat on a log, shivering in the snow.

"Tanya's mother killed herself," he said. "Did you know that?"

I shook my head. "That's horrible."

"The police decided that it was an accident. She didn't leave a note and she was drunk."

I took a guess. "Pills?"

"You didn't know?"

"How would I?

"Alice. Your dad."

"I don't remember Alice saying anything like that and my dad wouldn't have said anything."

Edward nodded. "I thought so."

"What do you mean, _you thought so_?"

"Tanya said you made fun of her mother."

"Why would I do that?"

Edward shrugged. "She told me that you just said it to be mean."

I forced myself to try and recall all of the times that Tanya and I had actually spoken. Aside from a few occasions, when teachers had forced us to pair up, it was just her snide comments in the hallway. "I don't remember saying anything like that." I paused. "I say things sometimes, I don't mean them. Maybe she misunderstood something I said." That wasn't entirely true though, was it? "No, I say fucked up things. And I do mean them. But I can't imagine trying to hurt someone by making fun of their dead mother. Even with everything Tanya was saying about me."

"This was before all that started," Edward corrected me. "Well, before the worst of it."

"Then I definitely didn't." I didn't see why it mattered. "Does it matter?"

"No," he shook his head sadly. "But it just reminds me how fucked up things can get. Like Tanya with her mom. How helpless Tanya was. She was just a kid when her mom died. And sometimes—" He stopped.  
"What?"

He asked me how I could be sure that I would never hurt myself. He said, "You're functioning, I don't question that. But people just don't heal themselves."

I pointed out the obvious. "Psychiatrists have been in existence for less than two hundred years. What do you think that people did before that?" I asked.

"They had a Bible that told them that they weren't allowed to kill themselves. And they went to confession. You don't go to church."

"I go to church." Though not for Mass. "I love the way the light filters through the stained glass." Seth and I were both big fans of it.

"Bella."

"I read every fucking self-help book ever written and I worked my ass off to get better. And I learned to pretend, until I wasn't pretending anymore."

"You still pretend more than I like."

There was no way that I was going to go to a psychiatrist or psychologist—some asshole with more problems than me and an IQ (and not the emotional one either) that was twenty points lower than mine. '_I'm not an elitist damn it!'_ I told Edward._ 'I just think that if someone is going to be telling you what to do that they should be smarter than you.'_ He pursed his lips and wisely chose not to say anything further. So I found a place that did group therapy for people with social anxiety. After all, a group setting seemed to make a lot more sense for handling a fear of social interaction than working one-on-one with someone. The group setting also helped to diffuse attention, so that that shit wasn't just on me. No one telling me what to do either. Just people talking about what worked or didn't work for them.

Edward questioned whether social anxiety really covered all of the issues I needed to handle.

I reminded him that I was only doing it for him (although the leader of our group, a woman named Rosalie, said that we were really supposed to be doing it for ourselves) and I told him that he should shut the fuck up.

Then, because the progress of our relationship hadn't deactivated the bitch in me, I pointed out that he should probably be seeing someone himself.

He shut the fuck up.

So apparently, it wasn't so much that I didn't _have_ emotions as I tended to shut them off. I'd learned to feign passivity a bit too well, a self-defense mechanism I had adopted in high school when I'd seen how letting a bully watch me suffer had just egged the bully on. To say nothing of how my mother had fed off of such things.

Real blood-sucking vampires might not exist but energy vampires definitely did.

Did it really matter if I felt fewer emotions than the "average" (boring) person? As far as I was concerned, people were probably projecting their own emotions onto me a bit more than they cared to admit.

Maybe my facial expression didn't always correspond to my inner thoughts (or feelings). People should stop looking at me so much.

Maybe I didn't care to _share_ my thoughts/feelings with just anyone. Why were people so damn curious anyhow? Did I go around invading their privacy? No. Couldn't they just back off?

Apparently, friends—and lovers—_shared_ their feelings quite often. Who knew?

_Fucking boring_, if you asked me. We could be discussing the ramifications of postmodernist discourse and the problematization of the historical subject _as_ a subject, but all anyone wanted to talk about was their _feelings_.

Wasn't it enough that I was _there_? Didn't _that_ alone show how much I cared?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, because social anxiety has a host of causes, it turned out that I did have to deal with some shit that I didn't care to deal with even though I didn't think it was very important. As a result, I ended up having to tell Edward some things that I didn't care to tell him, because apparently talking about the past promotes the healing process and your loved ones are supposed to be partners in your healing.

What the fuck ever.

"It's not really an issue," I said, happy that I could cross this little discussion off my _Path to Mental Wellbeing_ checklist, and annoyed that Edward was prolonging the conversation.

"Of course it's an issue," Edward replied.

"But it's not like he really did anything. I mean, I'm fine, right?"

"Clearly you're not."

"So you think there's something wrong with me?"

"No. I think your stepfather deserved to go to jail and that your mother should have gone along with him."

I sighed. "It was—_more_ than I would have wanted to deal with. Other people have to deal with way worse and are much more functional than I am."

"Why the fuck are you covering for them?" Edward sounded truly angry.

"I'm not covering. I couldn't have pressed charges. They never would have gone to jail. Not for something so minor."

"You can hardly stand to have me touch you. And you're trying to defend the bastards responsible. I've ignored problems before. I'm never doing that again."

I knew that he meant that he was still angry at himself for ignoring all of the evidence that there was something seriously wrong with Tanya—with the Denalis—and that he was afraid of repeating his mistake with me. As if there was anything that he could have done for them—as if there was anything that he could do for me.

Like I was a broken toy and he was the toy master.

_Fuck that._

"All of that shit I went through in school certainly didn't help," I snapped.

Edward gaped at me, having been a little too pleased, I thought, at the prospect of being able to point the finger at my mother and my stepfather for some of my problems.

I wasn't going to give him a pass.

Nevertheless, I didn't want to invest any more energy in it than I absolutely had to.

Truthfully, I wished this conversation could just be over, so that I could go back to shoving that shit down where I didn't have to think about it.

I said. "It is what it is. You can make it matter more than it does or you can let it go."

"Have you?" he asked.

I didn't understand, though I knew that he was talking about high school and my feelings about him.

"Have you let it go?" he clarified.

How would I know?

There was no one moment when I said to myself that I'd forgiven Edward. What did that even mean? _Forgiveness? _I'd said and done some things myself that were pretty fucked up. We were both fuck ups.

It was all of the moments put together. All of the moments that proved that Edward wasn't the boy who he used to be, and that I wasn't the girl who I used to be. We were simply Edward and Bella, with our memories serving to remind us of the people we wanted to be, the people we wanted to become, while the core of our former selves still lived on inside of us.

Then I realized that made it sound like we were carrying parasites.

I supposed that was okay so long as they didn't erupt out of our chests like in _Alien. _

One Saturday, we had lunch with Alice and Jasper. I had been "working" on my relationship with Alice. Apparently, we were co-dependent. Also, I thought she was a bitch sometimes but I didn't like to admit it, so I'd just be a bitch in return. And we'd just be bitches to each other in some sick _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?_ scenario—minus the grosser parts—all while pretending to be the best of friends. As if failing to acknowledge the problem meant that it wasn't happening.

I still wasn't good at telling people how I felt. But I was working on it.

After lunch, Edward and I went to a used bookshop. Edward was all excited because he was moving forward with his idea to become a Medical Examiner.

"I thought you wanted to go into private practice," I said.

He glanced at me with a worried expression. "You don't mind do you?"

"Why would I mind?"

Edward shrugged. "I don't know. Don't you think it's kind of morbid?"

"Being a Medical Examiner?"

He nodded.

I thought about it. "It _is_ morbid. But it's what you want to do. So you should do it."

He grinned at me. He was so easy to please.

Unlike me.

But then again, we _were_ going to a used book shop. Which was like my Shangri-La, so maybe I was easy to please too.

Edward and I split up inside. I didn't like having him follow me around, peering over my shoulder as I made selections. "Book hunting" was a private activity. Edward wasn't entirely convinced of the truth of this. But he let me have my way. Sometimes.

I made a few modest finds and began making my way back to Edward, only to round a bookshelf and come across a sight that stopped me in my tracks.

"What is that?!" I asked, not believing my eyes.

Edward shrugged. "Just a book."

"It is _not_ just a book." I couldn't believe the effrontery. Where had the book come from? Where had Edward found it? I knew damn well where every genre in this store was shelved. Had some idiot clerk misplaced it?

Incompetent—

"Why?" Edward glanced up at me. "Are you inter—" He broke off and grinned. "Do you want my book Bella?"

I stuck my nose up in the air. "It's just a book. It's not important."

"Really? Because you look like you want it."

"It looks like any other book," I gestured at the overstuffed shelves all around us. "I could probably find another one just like it."

Edward nodded. "Alright then, so if I put it back, you wouldn't want to buy it?"

"I might."

"You said it was worthless."

"I didn't say _that_—"

"Maybe I should ask the clerk to double check the price."

I stiffened. "Maybe you should just buy it after all. You don't need to bother the clerk."

"That's a good idea. I could give it to Jasper."

"What?! No. You will _not_ give it to Jasper."

"Why not?" Edward feigned confusion.

"Jasper has no ability to appreciate such a thing."

"Who should I give it then?"

"You should give it to me." Damn it! I wanted that fucking book.

"You could just ask for it, you know."

I took a deep breath. He was right, of course. I was overreacting. It was just the sight of the book—it unleashed the beast inside of me. "Can I have the book?" I smiled. Sweetly. "Please."

Edward pursed his lips. "I don't know. What will you give me for it?"

Motherfucker. "What do you want?"

He shrugged.

I narrowed my eyes. "Give me the book."

He laughed out loud. Edward really wasn't taking this seriously enough. "No." He took a step back.

"Give me the book, Edward."

He laughed again. "What will you do to me if I don't?"

"You'll regret it," I warned him.

"Oh will I?"

That was it. I shoved the books in my arms onto a bit of unused shelf space and launched myself at him. He kept laughing. If he hurt that book I was going to—

"Let me have it," I huffed, pulling at the end.

"No!"

Augghhh! I couldn't take it anymore.

So I kissed him.

And he let go of the book.

And then I was the one laughing, because the book was _mine_.

And then he had me pressed up against one of the bookshelves, kissing me for all I was worth.

And then they asked us to make our purchases and leave the store.

And as we walked out of the store onto the sidewalk, the bags of our new used books swinging from our hands, and Edward reached over and grabbed my hip and pulled me towards him, to whisper in my ear that he loved me, I reciprocated without even thinking about it, even though my feelings were utterly irrational (maybe it was _supposed_ to make no sense). And I realized that I had decided to forgive myself for forgiving him. It was alright that I had changed. It didn't mean that I was betraying the girl who I used to be. And I could forgive her too for the things that she had and hadn't done, for just taking shit and not standing up for herself, for hating herself and lashing out at people in fucked up ways. Because she'd done her best, just like I was doing my best now.

I decided to try with Edward. Not because I needed to be fixed. Not because I'd never be happy again unless I was with him.

I decided to try because Edward evoked feelings in me—_such feelings_—the like of which I'd only experienced before from the pages of a book.

"_Mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself—all comes from thee, great, great SENSORIUM of the world!_"

Temptation and deprivation joined. Longing satisfied and yet not sated.

And that's how all that happened.

…_Or is it?_

**AN: **

**If you are interested:**

**The killer ape hypothesis argues that violence and everything that goes into the support of violent activity was pivotal in the evolution of mankind. Think of all of the inventions that came from war—the splitting of the atom, among others. Recent, more nuanced arguments have pointed out that altruism was just as important, if not more so, in the evolution of our species. **_**That's right.**_** We wouldn't be here if people didn't do nice things for each other once in a while just because they felt like it. Even when it cost them. Go figure.**

**Jack and Sally – **_**Nightmare before Christmas**_**. No, Sally isn't a positive role model for women. And yes, redeeming Edward stories are bullshit and I'm reinforcing a negative stereotype just by writing this story. I also like horror movies, which everyone knows are sexist. I'm a traitor to my gender, etc. But then shouldn't feminism really be about giving women a choice, no matter how stupid we might think a particular woman's choice is? And I think that I'm prolonging this AN just because I don't want to stop.**

**Ugetsu – black and white Japanese horror movie. Pivotal. **

**(Me and my brother watching this movie – **

**Me: **_**What is that sound?**_

**Brother: I don't hear any— **

**Me and brother together: **_**What the fuck?!**_**)**

'**Mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself—all comes from thee, great, great SENSORIUM of the world!' by Lawrence Sterne**

**Rec: It has thousands of reviews and so doesn't meet my qualifications as a "diamond in the rough," but it was the first fanfiction I ever read, and I would like to pay it an homage: "The Blessing and the Curse" by The Black Arrow. It rocked my fucking world. Also there's quite a bit of Wuthering Heights imagery. Cue another round of the lecture re: dysfunctional female discourse. We can all be good well-adjusted creatures tomorrow. Today I would like to quote a line from Rob Zombie: "'I like to get fucked up.' 'I'm sure you do.'"**


	29. Chapter 29

**Meyers owns all. The below inspired by the movie **_**Clue**_** and the play **_**Six Characters in Search of an Author.**_** Thanks to sharkjumper for the **_**Six Characters... **_**encouragement. **

**REMEMBER: The last chapter ended like this:**

**And that's how all that happened.**

**...**_**Or is it?**_

_Or maybe it happened like this…_

And then it happened. A rush of sound and a flurry of wings. The morning of Tanya's Denali murder, a murder of crows was startled by the flight of a creature into their midst.

No ornithological manual bore an entry for a creature such as this. This was no bird. Nor was it even a half-man/half-bird, like the pitiful human-turned-screech owl who once bore witness to Persephone's consumption of the pomegranate seeds. _Seven months in hell every year_.

Aristotle would not know how to classify this creature in his _History of Animals_: 'There are some animals that possess blood and some that do not possess blood; but of those that possess blood all bear either live young or produce eggs.'

Here was something that once possessed its own blood but now fed on the blood of others. Something that bore neither live young nor eggs but instead brought life from death. A vampire.

Edward Anthony Masen Cullen was fond of Aristotle. He was drawn to the notion that one might categorize existence in all its infinite variety, bring the chaos of diversity to heel within narrow parameters so that each alternative might be traced back to a single perfect Idea or, if one was religiously-minded, an archetype in the mind of God.

Nevertheless, Edward was aware that vampires did not quite fit into Aristotle's classification. Edward was an anomaly, a man-bird who would startle the true birds whenever he moved through the trees, as he did so now, following a girl on the trail below.

The girl in question hadn't noticed her pursuer, though she'd glanced up at the noise made by the crows.

She paused to bend over a moss-covered rock, studying a fern growing at its base. Edward paused too, wondering idly what she would say if she should happen to look up suddenly andsee him hanging upside down from a branch over her head like a bat.

She could hardly lodge a protest over his fascination with her movements. It was her own fault that he was following her, after all. She'd left her scent all over the meadow, where she was clearly a frequent visitor. He imagined her flitting in and out of the trees like a sylvan nymph. _Perfectly pagan_.

Today, however, she'd ventured no further than the edge of the meadow before she'd caught sight of him. Sighing sadly, she'd backed away slowly. She ought to have taken greater care. Every naturalist knows that flight invites pursuit. Edward could not help but follow.

Every now and then, he could hear the girl emit quiet groans of frustration as she continued up the trail. He guessed rightly that she was annoyed over having found someone in the meadow. This frustration was a source of intrigue to Edward. To think that a creature such as she could possibly dream that it was her place to feel anything at all, let alone frustration, towards one such as he.

She stopped abruptly and sat down on a log. Edward paused overhead, the branch on which he rested bobbing gently up and down. He tilted his head to the side, studying her.

Deviations were the true test of any classification system. What to do with a creature like Edward Cullen? It was easy to forgive Aristotle's omission with regard to the vampire, perhaps. It was not in the vampire's vested interest to advertise its existence, so it would hardly be appropriate for it to be listed in an encyclopedia of animals alongside such run-of-the-mill creatures as the snake and the sponge. But the classification of an ordinary human ought to cause no problem at all for a man like Aristotle. So what to do with a creature such as Isabella Marie Swan? Where did she fit?

Nowhere. She gave the lie to any attempt at reasoned classification. It was yet another sign of her deviation from the norm that Edward could not read her mind, something which he could do quite easily for every other human he ran across.

Edward envisioned Swan suddenly in the midst of a Bosch-like scene: Hell. The humans called it high school. Hitler had wasted his time with eugenics, Edward thought. If a person really wanted to breed out undesirable traits, he need only force everyone inside a locked cage.

Were it not for Edward's flare for the dramatic, he would have no use for such distractions as secondary education. But Carlisle did so enjoy these games—doctor and wife and teenaged son in a gingerbread house in the center of the woods. _Come and take a bite_. Perfectly normal. Perfectly respectable. And it was a perverse sort of entertainment, watching how these humans forced their children into the arena while pretending that nothing was amiss. Family values—ha! PTAs and church groups bred more sociopaths than any video game store ever could.

But how to put on a good show in the face of such competition? The Romans would force criminals to reenact mythological scenes in their arenas—to castrate themselves or to set themselves on fire. The Americans were more subtle. Dressing their children up in less and less clothing and sending them to school with drugs and guns. It was hard to devise a fresh plot these days.

More birds cried out as Edward turned in the tree and left the girl. He hurried from tree to tree, and leapt to the ground once he was far enough from the girl to ensure that she would not spy his movements. He passed the meadow and continued down the trail, exercising still more caution as he crossed the town limits and ran along the highway, staying just within the tree-line so as to avoid being seen.

He ran all the way to Port Angeles and took to the rooftops. Risky business that. Leaping about in the broad daylight—or the murky daylight, as the case may be. It was an advantage being able to read peoples' minds in situations such as these, knowing when they were about to cast their eyes up at a roofline or turn down a particular street so that Edward would have fair warning that he should duck out of the way.

Edward found Tanya quickly enough. She was walking down the street, completely oblivious to the fact that she was being followed.

Before he was made into a vampire, Edward had a childish love for gothic literature. The more lurid, the more ridiculous, the better. He had a taste for the theatrical even then.

So he was a little saddened after his change to realize that the literature had been wrong about so many things. The fact that Edward wouldn't burst into flames if he came into contact with sunlight or a crucifix was disappointing. _Where was the challenge?_ he wondered.

As he stalked Tanya, Edward felt a sudden craving for danger.

Deciding to push his luck, he stepped out of an ally in front of Tanya just as a few rays of sunlight burst through a patch of clouds. The sight of Edward's pale skin shimmering in the weak light was enough to stop Tanya in her tracks.

Edward was happy that Stoker had been correct about at least one thing. It took very little effort to make a human compliant, even when compliance defied all reason. For all her blustering, Tanya barely put up a fight, though perhaps that was due more to her refusal to accept the reality of her situation than anything else. _You're dreaming_, he told her and she seemed to believe him. And why not? It made more sense that way.

Transporting Tanya from Port Angeles to the cabin was slightly awkward. Times like this, Edward wished that cloaks were still in fashion. What a striking figure he'd cut then.

For Edward's plan to work, there could be no hint of the supernatural in Tanya's death. He did nothing to her that a human couldn't have done. It was a struggle to exercise so much restraint, but he managed, reflecting that it took a maddeningly long time for a person to bleed to death. He also resisted the temptation to taste Tanya's blood. He wanted the forensics team to find every last drop.

While waiting, Edward decided that he needed a witness. He knew a waitress who would perform the role admirably. He'd visit her later that night and _persuade_ her that she'd seen Tanya disappearing into a certain silver Volvo. Maybe he'd even draw a picture for the wall of the waitress' restaurant. Make it that much more difficult for the police to doubt his guilt.

But first he had to return to the meadow in time for the Swan girl to see him a second time. Her participation was integral to the plot.

The narrative that he had in mind was more akin to those earlier gothic formulations, the forgeries of medieval romances. They weren't the first things one thought of when the word "gothic" was mentioned these days, but that was more to his advantage. The audience wouldn't expect it. And he'd use the frame of a morality play. Five acts in all. Three main characters. Plus the audience, of course.

_Picture it_, he thought to himself.

Indeed, picture it: The curtains rise over the stage.

_Act I: Insinuation. _

A smattering applause meets the hero as he steps onto the stage. The casting director has carefully chosen someone who is not just handsome but extraordinarily so, for the audience must be drawn into sympathy with the hero.

It does not matter that no one among them can ever be whatever the hero is. Achieve what he has. His triumphs are their triumphs. His suffering is their suffering.

Affection for the hero is crucial for lulling the audience into a false sense of security.

_Act II: Enter dissidence. _

Much as they may admire the hero, let there be no confusion on this point, audiences are fickle. They need something to keep them from straying.

A romance for the hero, then. And something standing in the way of its consummation. A fair maiden and a beast. Female humans in form both of them. But one beauteous of shape and the other dreadful to behold.

An allegory. Did not Plotinus suggest that beauty was dependent on symmetry? A person couldn't really be so pretty in form without being good in nature as well. Couldn't be hideous in form without being possessed of a wicked soul.

The audience imagines it knows exactly how this plot shall unfold. The hero and the fair maiden shall be wed. The beast dispatched. The reassurance of the mundane is necessary. It makes what happens next all the more terrible.

_Act III: Murder. _

The audience realizes with shock that this is no tale of romance. It is a thing of horror. The fair maiden is found slain, the blood drained from her body. _How is this possible?_ the audience asks.

Their dismay mounts, for the black hand of suspicion has fallen on none other than the hero.

_Act IV: Trial. _

It is a ghastly scene as the hero is threatened with the rack and then the gallows.

The audience protests his innocence: _That which is good in form cannot be wicked in spirit._

_So who then is guilty?_ the Inquisitors ask, for they must have their criminal.

_Is it not the place of beasts to shed the blood of the pure?_ the audience asks._ Do not dragons feast on virgins?_

They know their Edmund Spencer. The beast is Errour, _Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, But th' other halfe did womans shape retaine, Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine_. She is, by nature, the enemy of beauty.

The hero cannot possibly be guilty. No bloodstained clues are needed to point the way. By her very existence, the beast betrays her fault.

A reckoning is needed.

_Act V: The dead return to lay their claim._

Ghosts from moldy crypts emerging, spotted and torn mantles upon their skeletal forms, they raise bony fingers to point out the accused.

When the knight enters her den, Errour lets loose_ A floud of poison horrible and blacke. His grip loosens and she turns Her vomit full of books and papers._

Then, _with more than manly force, That from her body, full of filthie sin, He raft her hateful heade without remorse._

And the curtains lower over the stage.

The scene was a decade in the making. Edward's form hovering over Swan's corpse on the bed in a tableau resembled nothing less than Fuselli's _The Nightmare_, except with a vampire in the place of the gargoyle and a discarded chess piece in the place of the horse.

Remember your Capellanus_: The easy attainment of Love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized._

Love is a conquest.

So it came as some surprise to Edward to discover a discordant note in the midst of his victory. A trifling query that took on more and more significance the longer he puzzled over it. It was the question as to how deviation might arise in the first place, if not, as with everything else, from the Ideas, from the mind of God Himself.

Because if deviance was not the work of God, then that implied the activity of a second Creator. And that was polytheism.

But if deviance was the work of God, then that implied that God was capable of imperfection, and that was heresy.

The only logical conclusion was that deviance was not deviance after all.

And Swan's blood, Edward realized with a pang of despair when the last drop was gone, was just too sweet for her to be entirely wrong, Aristotle be damned.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

_Or maybe it happened like this…_

Is it more reassuring to think that violence always has a reason? That there is an exact proportion between suffering and pleasure?

No, for how could that be true when innocents suffer all of the time? That is, unless we are willing to countenance the possibility of reincarnation, with a person paying the debts of crimes committed in previous lifetimes. Or martyrdom, with a person suffering to expiate the sins of others.

Problems like this made Izzy wonder if there was a God, because how could God, who by definition must be good, be responsible for so much suffering?

_Maybe the world was the work of someone else,_ she reasoned, _a demiurge_. So it wasn't God's fault after all.

_But then what the hell do we need God for? _Izzy wondered.

Either way, if she ever saw Him, she thought that she'd like to flip Him the bird.

So maybe it was better just to think that violence hadn't any reason. That there was no justice at all and that sometimes fucked up things just happened. Which still meant that there probably was no God.

Though how the acceptance of random violence as something ordinary, something to be expected, was supposed to keep a person from becoming a serial killer, Izzy didn't know.

Izzy also didn't know why she had to be the one to deliver the department's gifts. Did she look like a fucking mail carrier? And to the _Cullens_, too. Her father was such a god-damned suck-up.

It was the morning of Tanya Denali's murder, but Izzy didn't know that yet. She put on a fake smile and rang the bell.

"Isabella," Mrs. Lame-ass gushed when she opened the door. "It's so good to see you."

_Bullshit_, Izzy thought. Her smile brightened. "Mrs. Cullen, my dad asked me to bring this to you. He said that it was a thank you from the department for your donation."

"Oh he didn't have to do that," Mrs. Lame-ass lied smoothly, taking the box from Izzy's hands. "But you tell him that Carlisle and I truly appreciate it."

Izzy stopped herself from snorting. She sincerely doubted that the Cullens could possibly have any interest in whatever inane gift her father's secretary had managed to come up with.

And why couldn't the damn secretary deliver it?

"I'd ask you inside," Mrs. Lame-ass continued, "but Carlisle and I are just on our way out."

"Of course," Izzy laughed, as if she actually bought the line. _Invite little ole me into the Cullen Mansion?_ Yeah, maybe if they needed a scullery maid. "I have to go anyhow," she said, pretending that the life of an eighteen year old social outcast was just filled to the brim with exciting events and activities.

Mrs. Lame-ass smiled at Izzy fatuously and then shut the door in her face.

_Bitch_. Izzy turned back to her truck and scowled as she passed the Cullens' luxury vehicles. It must be nice to have everything just handed to you. She supposed that Carlisle had studied for his board certifications, but all of that was probably a lot easier when you didn't have to worry about how you were going to put food in your mouth every day.

Izzy remembered all too well what it was like living hand to mouth before her mother married that piece of shit. She felt something twist in her stomach at the notion that she was going to have to see mommy-dearest and daddy #2 very soon. God-be-damned, how she hated them!

Izzy paused suddenly next to the dick's car—Edward's Volvo—spying the keys still sitting in the lock. She realized that Edward must have come out to his car for something and forgotten the keys there Which just showed you what a spoiled brat he was. Couldn't even take care of his things.

Izzy quickly grabbed the keys and hurried over to her truck, only daring to glance back at the house once she was safely in the cab. Nothing was stirring in the windows. She must not have been seen.

Izzy drove to the first turnabout and parked her car behind a stand of trees on a service road where it wouldn't be seen, and walked back to the Cullens, staying in the woods where she'd be out of sight to anyone driving by. She had to duck down behind a bush when Carlisle's car passed, but she could plainly see Carlisle in the driver's seat and Esme in the passenger's seat. Izzy paused again when she reached the driveway in front of the house. If Edward was still home, he'd notice when she took the car.

She'd just decided to take the chance of being seen and steal the car when Edward flounced out of the side door and headed for the woods. That's right, _flounced_. Fucking pussy.

She knew where he was going. The meadow. She'd seen him there often enough. Never mind that it was _her_ fucking meadow and that he had no fucking right to be there. Never mind that it was probably twenty fucking miles away. Mr. Track and Field would hike all of the way there—even though there were fifty other meadows just like it in those fucking woods—because he had go to _that_ meadow.

She waited until he was too far away to hear the car when it started up, then sprinted for the Volvo. Quickly sliding into the seat, she shivered. What a frisson of delight. She felt…different. Not herself.

She slid the key into the ignition and started the car. What a sound.

Swallowing, she glanced into the rearview mirror and was startled by what she saw there.

Was this what she looked like? Hair wild and features asymmetrical. There was a smudge of dirt on her chin where she'd rubbed it after crouching with her hands on the ground behind the bush. She rubbed at the smudge, scowling when the dirt smeared.

Looking around the car, she saw a pair of sunglasses and a letter jacket. _What a douche bag._ Guys who wore sunglasses like this were tools. And letter jackets were for sheep.

But glancing back at the rearview mirror, she paused. She didn't look right. Anyone who saw her would know immediately that she didn't belong.

Izzy grabbed the sunglasses and put them on. She liked the way she looked in them.

She pulled on the jacket too and liked that even better.

Her hair was still a problem. She saw a baseball hat in the backseat and pulled it on, shoving her hair under the cap.

She really liked the way she looked then.

As Izzy pulled out of the driveway, she smiled at the power she felt vibrating through the steering wheel. This was a real car. She bet she could make it all the way to Port Angeles in half an hour if she really let it rip.

She decided to let it rip.

Racing down the highway, she felt nothing like herself. She felt free. She felt wild.

_Who am I?_ she wondered.

She felt like Edward Cullen, or so she told herself.

_This is what it feels like to be rich_, she thought. _Rich and everyone falling at your feet._

It occurred to her that she could do whatever she wanted and get away with it.

_I could kill someone_, she thought_, and no one would care_.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed that a few strands of hair had crept below the baseball cap. They were shining in the sun—bright red. She even had Edward's hair color now.

When Izzy pulled in front of _Bella Italia_ she saw the waitress and Tanya in the alley.

Izzy snorted at the sight. _Miss Teenaged Dream_ was a blow queen. And now she was selling drugs too, apparently.

The waitress already looked high, swaying slightly as she stumbled behind the dumpster, hiding at the approach of the Volvo.

Izzy was so amused by the sight that she lingered longer than she probably should have. Tanya glared when she caught sight of the Volvo at the curb, then looked confused when she saw who was driving.

"What the fuck are you doing in Edward's car?" she asked.

"What the fuck were you doing in that alley?" Izzy asked, sounding unlike herself. She wasn't some meek little mouse today.

"What's it to you?" Tanya sneered.

"_What's it to you?"_ Izzy mocked.

The waitress must have said something. Tanya glanced at the dumpster and said, "It's no one." She looked back at Izzy. "Where's Edward?"

"Isn't he here?" Izzy looked at the passenger seat. "Edward? Edward? Are you there?" she looked back at Tanya. "He's not here. Maybe he's in the trunk."

"You're fucking crazy."

"And you're a fucking drug dealer."

"You bitch—"

"_I_'m the bitch?"

"I don't know what you think you're doing—"

"I think I've got the prom queen by the balls. That's what I think I'm doing."

Tanya hesitated. "It's not what it looks like."

"Right."

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"What could you possibly have to offer me?"

Tanya stepped towards the car. "We can talk about it."

Izzy cocked her head to the side. Then shrugged. "Sure."

Tanya walked around the car, pulling open the passenger door and sliding in. "If you try something, just remember that that waitress saw me get into this car with you."

"That waitress is as high as a kite," Izzy said as she pulled away from the curb. "She's going to tell everyone that she saw _Edward_ driving this car. Must be nice—getting wasted at work."

"She's fucking the owner. She spends most of her shift in the bathroom."

"It won't matter anyhow."

"What do you mean?"

"She'll have come down by the time the police question her."

Tanya hissed. "There's no fucking way you're going to the cops."

"I'm not going to the cops," Izzy explained.

"Then why would the police want to question her."

"They'll have to. When they find your body."

There was more to it than a confused waitress, of course. Izzy had to confect an alibi for herself. Thank goodness little Jacob Black was working the booth in the park that day. It was easy to convince him to say that she'd paid her fee and driven through.

Of course, Izzy didn't realize how much that alibi would cost her in the long run. Because Jacob didn't just send her letters and leave a couple of dead animals on her doorstep. There were pictures and threats and _other thing. _It was enough to push Izzy right to the edge.

She was _this _close to killing Jacob Black when he made his mistake. After he killed Bree—stupidly thinking it would fuck with Izzy's head—Izzy had him right where she wanted him.

"You've got to be kidding me," he hissed, his voice low enough that the others sitting in the waiting room wouldn't hear.

Izzy laughed—_Izzy_ not _Bella_, because Izzy was always the strong one. "A body for a body. We're even." She crossed her arms nonchalantly and leaned against the vending machine.

"But I—you did all of this for _Edward_?" Jacob spit the name out.

Edward was in fact still in surgery with a gunshot wound following the run-in with Victoria and Riley in the warehouse. _That_ was a convenient turn of events. Thank God (or whoever) for long-lost psychotic cousins who could be talked into thinking that they were killers.

"Why not?" Izzy asked.

"You hate him. Isn't that what all of this was about? Him and Tanya. I still don't understand why you gave him that alibi in the first place."

Izzy smiled. A real smile. The kind of smile Bella never wore. "Because he owes me. Even more now. It's a nice feeling." She'd taken a chance with that whole story about the meadow a decade ago. It hadn't really panned out—the ungrateful little fuck hadn't stepped up the way he should have. He'd come up to her one time in the diner—_one _motherfucking time. Did he really think she'd make it that easy for him? He was supposed to keep trying.

Turned out that all good things come in time. She just had to be a little patient.

"You're fucking sick," Jacob hissed.

"Says the man who thinks a dead squirrel is a love note."

Jacob started to raise a hand.

"What happened to you doing anything for me?" Izzy pouted.

Jacob's hand fell.

"If you really love me," she whispered, "you'll do this."

"Watch you with him?"

"Watch me destroy him."

Jacob thought about it. Could he really just sit back and watch the woman he loved cavort with this leech? He shook his head. "Only if you really do _destroy _him," he warned. "Utterly. Tear him limb from limb and burn the pieces."

"I'll salt the motherfucking earth," Izzy promised.

It had been so easy to manipulate Jacob and Victoria. And she was already having fun with Edward. He'd fallen for her Little Miss Lonely act, hook, line and sinker.

By the time Izzy was done with Edward, she'd have him thinking that maybe he'd killed Tanya after all.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

_Or maybe it happened like this…_

A few days before Tanya Denali's murder, Jasper was waiting in the airport for his flight when he saw her looking all innocent and wicked and untamed. Like _Bonny Parker_, he thought. In a ridiculous sailor dress and a pair of Mary Janes. _Where does she think we are? A speakeasy?_

Alice hadn't got a rhyme or reason to talk to him. Nor even to be sitting there. She'd traded plane tickets with a girl going to New York City. Fuck her cousins if they thought she was going to bumfuck Mississippi again. She wasn't thinking straight maybe. Just _I can't be here no more_. Like the girl who'd taken her plane ticket. "Why you want to go to Mississippi?" Alice had asked the girl. The girl had shrugged. "Never been there before." _And you'll wish you'd never gone_, Alice thought to herself, just grateful that she and the girl looked similar enough to get through airport security with one another's tickets.

"What're you doing here?" Jasper asked.

Alice cocked an eyebrow at him. The makeup around her eyes was heavy. Like kohl. Like a pseudo-Egyptian Art Deco print.

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked in an arch tone, playing with a string of plastic pearls around her neck.

He shrugged. They weren't in high school any more. And she looked—different. He could talk to a person now and then couldn't he?

"I—if you must know—I have just returned from abroad and am making my way home," Alice explained in that same arch tone with a slight southern accent.

Jasper wondered for a minute if it was a case of mistaken identity after all. But she looked just like Alice. Maybe she had a long lost cousin.

He tried to play it off, standing there in an airport Starbucks sipping on a Frappuccino like a man who was comfortable with his own sexuality. "I'm going to see my cousins in Texas."

Alice smiled sweetly. "That must be nice for you." Her voice dripped with condescension.

"Strange seeing you here," Jasper murmured, pretending he hadn't noticed her patronizing tone.

"Why?"

"What?" Jasper floundered some more.

"Why is it strange seeing me at a coffee shop in an airport? I wear feathers sometimes, but I can't actually fly."

Jasper gaped for a minute. Why was he so fucking flustered? "It's just. You look different."

Alice looked down at herself. "If you say so."

Jasper tried to recover. "I guess it's not the clothes. It's something else."

Alice narrowed her eyes at this. She highly doubted that anything about her had really changed. She was the same. And her cousins in Mississippi were the same crazy swamp people they'd always been. She didn't want to see them. But she didn't know what she would do with herself in New York either. She suddenly felt desperately lonely.

Watching Alice's face fall, Jasper suddenly felt bad. "You want to get out of here?" he asked.

"Out of here?" Alice eyed him warily. "Out of Starbucks?"

"Yeah. My plane's not for another two hours. When's yours?"

Her plane was probably already taxiing out of the gate. "I've got time."

They pulled away from the counter and ambled into the concourse. Alice instantly felt better watching all of the people rush by. She held out a hand and closed her eyes, sighing.

"What're you doing?" Jasper asked, a note of laughter in his voice.

"I could be any of them," Alice explained with a tone, as though trying to make herself understood to a child. She was annoyed at his laughter. "Going anywhere."

"Aren't you happy just being you? Going wherever you're going?"

"If I were me, I wouldn't be here with you."

Jasper sobered. "Yeah I guess."

Alice studied him thoughtfully for a minute. She'd no idea why he was bothering with her right now—she suspected even that he had a notion of fucking with her—but there wasn't any reason that she couldn't have a little fun with him. "What do you want to do?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"That's boring."

Jasper blinked.

She leaned towards him and whispered conspiratorily. "Want to have some fun?"

"Sssure," he replied hesitantly.

Alice grinned wickedly and spun around, then took off for the far end of the terminal. Jasper hurried to keep up with her. She was surprisingly fast despite her short legs.

"Where're we going?" he huffed.

"You'll see." She came to a sudden stop and he almost slammed into her. He grabbed her shoulders to keep from colliding into her. "D'you see her?" Alice asked, gesturing discreetly to a tweed-suited matron with buxom features.

Jasper nodded.

"Watch this." Alice took a seat next to the woman in question and bent over to fiddle with her backpack. She sat back up and jiggled her foot impatiently for a minute or two, then bent back down. Sitting up quickly she raised her phone to ear and started yelling into it in a drawl, throwing in a curse now and then. The matron next to her glared her way but to no effect. Alice continued whaling into her phone. Finally, the matron lumbered to her feet and dragged her luggage away.

Alice leapt up and skipped towards Jasper.

He shook his head. "I don't see—"

Alice held out her hand. In it sat a wallet.

"What the fuck?" he gaped at her.

She smiled and pulled the wallet open. Taking the cash, she dropped the wallet on a seat and started walking casually away.

"What was that?" Jasper asked, following after her.

"Fun. Don't you like to have fun?" Alice inquired innocently.

"Yeah but—"

Alice stopped again and gestured once more. "Him."

Jasper glanced up and saw a dull looking fellow in loud pants and a button-down shirt that didn't quite fit over the man's stomach. "What about him?"

"He's yours."

"Alice, I don't think."

"What? You don't think you can do it?" Alice gazed at Jasper reproachfully. "I thought you were the big man on campus. Could do whatever you wanted. Now you can't even man up enough to have a little fun."

"This is over the line."

"Over the line?" Alice glared. "You want to know what's over the line? Little boys overcompensating for their small dicks by humiliating someone everyday of her life. You're a fucking pussy."

Jasper shook his head. "I don't have a small dick."

"Hmph!"

"I'll show you."

"Not yet you won't."

Jasper started shuffling towards the man that Alice had picked out. He couldn't believe he was doing this. What the fuck was wrong with him?

But he did it just the way Alice had, imitating his cousins' nasally whine as he screeched into the phone like a good ole boy 'bout gator shooting and possum pie.

He left the wallet but brought back keys and a parking receipt and got a kiss on the cheek for his trouble. Just a kiss, but it sent a jolt right through him, exhilaration competing with fear, so that he could feel and hear the thump-thump-thump of the blood pumping through his veins.

"Come on," Alice giggled, grabbing Jasper's hand and pulling him after her.

They found the car in the parking lot easily enough.

"Where're we going?" Jasper asked when they'd made it to the highway.

"Here," Alice said, reading out the man's address from his registration.

The man lived in an apartment. Not exactly the penthouse but nice enough. Jasper found the liquor cabinet and stash of cigars in two shakes of a bunny's tail. The stereo was harder to figure out. Alice fiddled it until the discordant sound of a piano started coming out of the speakers.

"What're you playing?" Jasper asked.

"Don't you like it?"

He grimaced. "My uncle likes this stuff."

"Do I look like your uncle?"

"It's just so—old-fashioned."

Alice shimmied her way across the carpet. "It's not old-fashioned. It's flappers and gangsters. Booze and sex." She closed her eyes and swayed. "I could have been a bootlegger. Or a gangster's moll."

Jasper pulled her towards him. She opened her eyes.

"A gangster's moll, 'ey?" he inquired.

"It's a scream," she said, then pushed him away. "I'm hungry."

He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "I'll find us something." Jasper left Alice in the living room and started rummaging through the refrigerator.

"What do you think?" Alice asked, strolling into the kitchen a few minutes later in nothing but her pearls, a bra and underwear. She had a gun in one hand and a cigar in the other. The chipped blue nail polish on her toes matched her eye shadow.

Jasper backed away. "Where'd you find that?"

"In his closet." She pointed the gun at him. "You afraid?"

He shook his head.

"Liar."

"It's dangerous," Jasper warned.

"I'm dangerous." She stalked towards Jasper, the gun level with his stomach. "You wouldn't hurt me, would you?" she whispered when she was standing directly in front of him

"Never."

"Liar."

He kissed her, that fear-exhilaration raging inside of him again.

Later, Alice read to him from a book she'd pulled from her bag. "Bedtime story," she'd said. Jasper lay with his head on her stomach. She ran her fingers through his hair as she read. "Chapter 1: The Body in China Street. Green dice rolled across the green table struck the rim together, and bounced back."

The next morning, Jasper woke up to find Alice wandering naked around the apartment.

"Come back to bed," Jasper said.

Alice ran her hands over an armchair. "How much do you think this costs?" she asked.

Jasper shrugged.

"Do you ever wish you could just get out, on your own?"

"We're going to college in the fall."

Alice snorted. "That's not freedom. That's a leash."

"We'll have our own space."

"Paid for by mommy and daddy. And we'll have to share with other people. I want my own space. My own stuff."

Jasper saw a piece of paper sitting on the coffee table. He bent over to read:

Birdcage $20

Wall lantern $20

Ram's head $35

Re-cover couch $100

Table and chairs $150

To age furniture: 1) apply dark coat of paint, 2) apply light coat of paint; 3) rub with steel wool; 4) wax and buff with a wax tinted with umber colorant

Baking pans $20

Tupperware $40

"What's this?"

"Shopping list," Alice answered.

"They won't let you do all this in a dorm."

"Did I say it was for a dorm?" Alice spit. Was he really so dense? Why couldn't he understand? Just this one thing?

Jasper backed up. "Sorry."

Alice shrugged.

Jasper approached her and wrapped his hands around her waist. "You should get whatever you want," he said.

She didn't reply.

A few hours later, it was the vibrations that woke Jasper up. Alice had pulled away to the edge of the bed, but her body was still quaking and he could feel the shudders.

"What's wrong?" Jasper ran his hand over her back, worried.

She stilled, not turning around. "I had a dream," she answered softly, her voice shaking.

"It was just a dream."

"No such thing."

"What was it about?"

"We were being hunted."

Jasper blinked. "Like in the woods? By someone with a gun?"

"By a dream."

Jasper didn't understand.

"We were being hunted by a dream. We couldn't wake up. We kept trying to wake up and we couldn't. You were scared but you tried to make me feel better and said maybe we weren't really asleep after all. But we were."

"That doesn't make any sense."

Alice turned towards him. "Do you know why I like those movies?" she asked. When they weren't making love or dancing or sleeping, she'd make him watch old movies on the tv.

"Because they're old?" Jasper guessed.

She looked at him with disappointment. "Because they don't make sense."

Jasper knew better than to try and say anything.

"Everything's messed up. The politicians are corrupt and the police are corrupt and no one's any good, not even the hero. And there's no happy ending. Not really. Even the camera angles—they're all fucked up. And that's the way things are."

"That's fucked up," was Jasper's inspired reply.

"That's the way things are."

Alice looked so fucking sad that Jasper couldn't take it. He kissed her.

"Don't think like that," he said. He kissed her again. "You can't think like that. You've gotta have hope." He felt fear bubbling up inside of him. And it wasn't the same kind of fear as before. It wasn't that wild exhilaration. It was desperation. And grief. He felt like she was moving away from him, and he tightened his grip on her hips.

"Hope for what?" she asked.

"The future."

She shook her head. "I haven't got a future."

"What do you mean?"

Alice looked away, her eyes wary.

"You can trust me," Jasper told her.

"You'll think I'm crazy," she whispered.

"No I won't," he lied, because he it didn't matter if she was crazy. He thought that he might love her.

And as much as Alice didn't trust Jasper, she wanted to. She thought that she might love him. The terror of that was enough to set her skin on fire and the only thing that quenched it was more terror, even though that didn't make any sense. More Jasper.

They spent two days in the apartment in Seattle, smoking cigars and drinking booze and listening to jazz and watching black-and-white film noirs and reading pulp fiction written by an ex-Pinkerton detective.

The morning of the third day, they heard someone knocking on the door. They waited until the person at the door left, then hastily dressed and went down the fire escape.

The spark of fear in Jasper's chest ought to have sobered him up, but there was something about it—everything about it, everything about Alice—that defied the possibility of fear. Or rather, it took that fear and rode it like a wave. He ran down the street, his hand pulling Alice after him, laughing laughing laughing. The sound made Alice feel safe.

They found the car a few blocks down. Alice had wisely refused to let him park too close to the apartment. The previous morning when they went out for breakfast, she'd kept a watch in the parking lot of an IHOP as he'd changed the plates.

"I've got a friend in town," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. "We'll go there."

It turned out that the friend, who happened to be named Laurent, was _not_ in town, but he said that Alice could spend the night at his place. He was actually in Port Angeles and wanted to know if Alice would drop something off for him. He'd pay her for it, he said.

"Port Angeles is awfully close to Forks," Alice groaned over the phone.

"And you're supposed to be in Mississippi," Laurent replied. "Bet mommy and daddy wonder where their little girl went."

In point of fact, Alice was pretty sure that mommy and daddy thought that she was still in Mississippi—her cousins wouldn't want to admit that she'd never shown up. Because then they'd have to admit why their dear cousin might want to avoid them.

And as for Jasper, he was supposed to be with his cousins, but he'd told his parents that he'd gone to see his uncle Jazz instead, and Jazz had agreed to cover for him. "Boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do," Jazz had said when Jasper asked for the favor. "Jus' don't make me regret dis," Jazz said.

"Course not," Jasper had lied.

So Alice and Jasper spent the night at Laurent's place and set out for Port Angeles the next day. "Let's go to California," Alice said. She wanted to drive down Mulholland Drive.

Jasper looked dubious.

"Port Angeles is on the way."

"Okay," Jasper agreed. Jasper was careful to do the speed limit at all times, even when Alice encouraged him to take a little risk. He had to pull over to the side of the road when her encouragement got a trifle too enthusiastic.

So they were later getting to the cabin then they'd expected.

"Fuck my life," Alice groaned, backing away from the door.

Inside, Tanya Denali was just starting to kneel down in front of a tall black man with dreadlocks, her hands on his zipper.

"You're going to get a rash on your knees," Alice mocked Tanya when she emerged from the cabin a second later, clearly having decided to put off her "payment" to Laurent for another time.

Alice and Jasper were leaning up against the car, expressions of mutual disgust on both of their faces. They both wished they'd driven straight to California, to hell with Laurent's money.

"You _are _a rash," Tanya responded lamely.

"Alice, d'ya bring it?" Laurent asked, ignoring the sniping.

"Yeah." She nodded at Jasper, who handed the bag to Laurent.

"Good." Laurent opened the bag and checked the contents.

"Some of that's for me, right?" Tanya asked.

"Christ you're a crack whore," Alice snarked, because she wasn't the one still stuck in Forks. That was Tanya.

"Fuck you freak."

"Don't fucking call me a freak—"

Jasper wrapped a hand around Alice's waist, holding her back. He was annoyed to be back in Port Angeles, to be seeing Tanya again. He thought the whole point was to do something new. But he was willing to go along with this for a while. For Alice.

"Relax, relax," Laurent said. "Y'all need to relax. Get a little high maybe."

"You got it or not?" Tanya asked.

Alice snorted.

"I got it," Laurent responded before an argument could break out again. "Alice, why don't you and your boyfriend stay and relax with us for a while?"

"I gotta get back to my sisters," Tanya complained. "You said we would be here for a _minute_. We need to go."

Tanya's bitching was enough to make Alice suddenly very interested in enjoying a little relaxation time with her good friend Laurent and her dear boyfriend Jasper.

"Do you want this or not?" Laurent asked Tanya. "Cause you can walk yourself back to town otherwise."

"Fuck!" Tanya glared at Alice. "Fine."

Laurent and Tanya turned back into the cabin, with Alice and Jasper following a beat later. Jasper had spent so many nights partying at this cabin. It felt strange to be here with Alice. His old self and his new self clanging together uncomfortably. He tried to ignore the feeling that something was off.

"I don't see why they have to be here," Tanya pouted. "And what're you doing with her anyhow?" she asked Jasper. "She's a freak."

"Stop calling me a freak!" Alice yelled. She wanted to gouge Tanya's eyes out of her head. Make the girl pay for seeing what Alice didn't want people seeing.

"Make me!"

"Crack whore!"

"Ladies, ladies. Relax. There's no need for fighting," Laurent tried to calm everyone down. "Let's just sit down and enjoy ourselves."

Everyone slid to the floor, Jasper refusing to meet Tanya's eyes. Who the hell was she to be calling him out?

Laurent lit a joint.

"I know there's more than joints in there," Tanya said.

Laurent chuckled. "Eager aren't we?" He handed something to Alice.

"What is it?" Jasper asked Alice, having decided to ignore Tanya and Laurent altogether.

"Don't you trust me?" Alice dropped the pill on the tip of her tongue and held her mouth open. An invitation. _Fuck Tanya!_

Jasper kissed her.

When he pulled away, Alice said, "There used to be cocaine in Coca-Cola, you know. And opium in everything."

Still ignoring the fact that they weren't alone, Jasper stretched out so that he was lying with his head on Alice's stomach. He closed his eyes as she ran her fingers through his hair.

_That guy had nice shit_, he thought, remembering the apartment in Seattle. Jasper could see himself owning a place just like it one day. All sleek lines and modern. _Though Alice would probably want one of those funny looking phones with the rotary dial_. He wondered if she planned on getting an actual bird or just the cage. And what the fuck did she want with a ram's head?

"Get a room," he heard someone mutter but the voice seemed far away.

After a while, Jasper imagined-dreamt-remembered-thought that Alice had pulled out her book and was reading to him again. _Why you like this stuff?_ he wondered. All violence and mayhem. _You like it rough_, Alice answered.

It was so surreal hearing all those angry words coming out of Alice's sweet mouth as she read in her soft feminine voice. She made the threats sound like come-ons, all breathy and sultry. The punches like kisses. "Rosy-cheeked Rusty, still holding his cards at the table, said gloomily but without emotion: 'Jesus, Jeff, you'll croak him.' Jeff said: 'Him?' he indicated the man at his feet by kicking him not especially hard on the thigh. 'You can't croak him. He's tough. He's a tough baby. He likes this.' He bent down, grasped one of the unconscious man's lapels in each hand, and dragged him to his knees. 'Don't you like it baby?' he asked and, holding Ned Beaumont up on his knees with one hand, struck his face with the other fist." _It's all fucked up_, he imagined-remembered Alice whispering.

When Jasper came to a few hours later, he wasn't sure at first where he was. "What's going on?" he asked.

Laurent was shaking Alice. "What did you do?" he yelled.

"She wuz a bitsch," Alice slurred. She was so tired. She wished everyone would just leave her alone.

"Jesus Christ!" Laurent shook his head. Tanya lay in a pool of blood in the center of the cabin.

Jasper felt sick. He looked down at his own hands. They were covered in blood. What had he done? He felt that fear-exhilaration again but it just made him nauseous this time.

"Just get the fuck out of here," Laurent said.

Jasper tried to stand and stumbled against the wall of the cabin. He felt like he was in one of those movies that Alice had made him watch. The scene tilting on its axis. All fucked up.

"We're high. Canna drive," Alice shook her head. For once she was going to be the voice of caution. She couldn't let Jasper hurt himself.

"Fucking go!" Laurent barked, stuffing all of his shit back into his bag.

Jasper grabbed Alice's hand and pulled her off of the floor and pushed her through the door, trying not to vomit.

"S'not safe," Alice murmured as Jasper pushed her into the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt for her.

No, it wasn't safe at all. The fear clawing at Jasper's insides.

Jasper threw himself into the driver's seat and started the car, fishtailing as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He didn't care if he totaled the car. He was getting them the fuck out of there immediately.

He had to pull over a few times because his hands were shaking so badly. He couldn't see straight either.

Somehow though, he got them as far as Oregon that night. They slept in their car at a truck stop.

They got to California the next day, checking into a motel with a credit card that Alice said she'd gotten from Laurent.

They watched the news. But some dead girl in Port Angeles wasn't important enough to make national television. Alice said no one cared. By which she meant, Alice and Jasper shouldn't care either. Because Tanya deserved whatever had happened to her.

Alice concentrated on not caring. Just like a gangster's moll.

"We've got to play it safe," Jasper tried to explain. "I'll drive you to Mississippi then I'll get rid of the car somewhere. Take a bus to my uncle's."

"What do you mean?" Alice looked up at him. They were lying in bed together. It was sometime after midnight.

Jasper rubbed his forehead. "We've got to lay low." He realized how stupid that sounded. Like he was a character in that book she'd read to him.

"So that doesn't mean we can't be together."

"Of course we can be together. But we just can't _be_ together."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Alice asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice despite herself. It occurred to her that this was like the cabin all over again. Like she wasn't even herself. Like she was playing someone else in a movie.

And this wasn't going the way that Jasper had planned it himself. None of this was going the way Jasper had planned it.

Being with Alice had been so exciting at first. Like she was his Bonny. "And you're my Clyde," she'd whisper to him as she'd unzipped his pants that first time. But everything had gotten out of control.

"What happened to Tanya?" he asked.

"Don't you remember?"

He didn't. Or maybe he just didn't want to remember.

Alice clenched her hair in two fists. _Is this what it feels like to go insane? _She felt something inside of her snap.

"You want to break up with me?" Alice hissed, switching from panic to fury. "Fine. Fuck you!" She jumped out of bed and started grabbing her clothes, dressing and packing at the same time.

Jasper reached for one of her hands. "Calm down."

She recoiled from his touch like it burned. "Don't tell me to calm down!"

"Just wait until morning."

"Why? So you can fuck me again?"

Well, yes.

But also, where the fuck was she going to go at this time of night? "Don't be like this."

"I'm not the one doing this to us."

She waited until morning though.

And she let him drive her all of the way to Mississippi, too.

Alice didn't say one word to him during the drive, even when he was so tired that he told her that they either had to stop or she had to drive. She didn't think there was anything left to be said.

But when she didn't reply, Jasper decided that he didn't trust her not to drive them off a cliff, so he parked at a truck stop and slept in the driver's seat. He dreamt that she was reading to him again. "'You despise me,' she said in a low hard voice. 'You think I'm a whore.' 'I don't despise you,' he said irritably, not turning to face her. 'Whatever you've done you've paid for and been paid for and that goes for all of us.'"

Alice had the same dream. It made her feel like she was splitting in two.

She concentrated on not caring. Like a gangster's moll.

When Jasper finally pulled into that trailer park in Mississippi, he almost turned around again and left. _Fuck everything and everyone_. He wasn't leaving Alice here. Because _holy shit_, it was the middle of fucking nowhere. "Your cousins really live here?" Jasper asked just to be sure, but Alice still wasn't speaking to him and her stony stare made any thought Jasper had of turning around and driving to New York go right out the window. He stopped in front of an ugly yellow trailer with rusted siding and Alice got out of the car and pulled her bags from the back and slammed the doors and turned away. Just like that. As Jasper watched her trudge up to the door of the trailer, he realized that he might hate her.

Jasper drove away as fast as he could, then ditched the car, just like he said he would, and took a bus the rest of the way to his uncle's.

"You didn't get yourself into trouble, did'ya boy?" his uncle asked.

"No sir."

Ten years later, Jasper walked into a bar and his heart stopped in his chest. The last time he'd spoken to Alice, it was right after Edward's arrest. He'd been so very angry. "He could go to jail," Jasper had yelled when Alice had finally picked up the phone. "So the fuck what?" Alice had asked. "He's my friend," Jasper had persisted. "Turn yourself in then. You don't have to say anything about me being there," Alice had pointed out. Never mind that Alice had convinced Laurent to arrange the waitress' testimony, thinking it would serve Jasper right, having his best friend implicated for a crime _he_'d helped to commit. Jasper had broken her heart so Alice had broken his heart. You can't let people go around thinking that they can just hurt you without paying a price. The dead girl was just collateral.

But none of that mattered when they saw each other in that bar. After all, terror and happiness feel so much alike sometimes that you can't tell the difference.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

_Whichever way it happened, if Victoria wasn't the murderer, this also happened…_

A few weeks after Tanya Denali's murder, the murderer followed Victoria around the cabin.

"So this is where it happened?" Victoria asked.

The murderer nodded.

Victoria exhaled. "What—" she started and then stopped. "What was it like?"

"You tell me," the murderer said.

Victoria glanced up reproachfully. "How would I know?"

"Of course you know."

"I do?"

"You've always known."

Victoria seemed to think this over. "I have always wondered what it would be like."

"What _it _would be like?" the murderer coaxed.

Victoria looked equal parts fearful and hopeful. "To kill someone," she whispered.

"Tell me."

They both looked back at the cabin.

"Or show me," the murderer suggested, heading around towards the entrance.

"But the police tape," Victoria cautioned.

"Do you see the police?" the murderer asked.

"No."

The murderer wheeled suddenly on Victoria, grabbing one of her arms. "Are you afraid?"

Victoria didn't reply.

"You _are_. You're afraid. Fucking coward." The murderer shoved Victoria away and began stalking back to the car.

"No I'm not. I'm not afraid."

The murderer laughed. "Please. Like I'm supposed to believe that you could have killed that girl. You don't have the first clue when it comes to killing someone."

"I could kill someone," Victoria insisted, stumbling after the murderer.

"_Could_. _Maybe_."

"I _did_. I _did _kill her."

The murderer turned towards Victoria and the cabin again. "Are you telling the truth? Or are you just trying to impress me?"

"I killed Tanya Denali," Victoria insisted.

The murderer smiled. "Tell me how."

"I got her here."

"How?"

"In my car."

"_Your_ car?"

"In Edward Cullen's car."

"How did you get it?"

"I stole it."

"How did you get Tanya to get in the car with you?"

"I forced her into the car."

The murderer looked dubious.

Victoria backtracked. "I convinced her to get into the car."

"How?"

"I told her that I would take her to Edward."

"And what did you do when you got her here?"

"I slit her throat."

The murderer's head shook.

Victoria amended. "I hit her over the head first."

"With what?"

"A tire iron."

"A plank would be better. See? There're planks just lying around the cabin."

"I hit her with a plank."

"And then?"

"I dragged her inside."

"To do what?"

"To kill her."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

_Or maybe it happened like this…_

Tanya had loved that little Golden Book when she was a kid. The one about there being a monster at the end of the book.

She couldn't help feeling that she was reaching the end of her book.

And she didn't think it was going to end as well for her as it had in that children's story.

Tanya might have put it all down to paranoia were it not for the uncanny sensation that she was being stalked. For weeks before she was murdered, everywhere that she went, she felt like there were eyes on her. She was always looking over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of her stalker. It made her skin crawl.

She was even having trouble sleeping, imagining that she could feel eyes on her as she lay in bed. She'd stare in the dark corners of her room, trying to make out the image of some ghostly voyeur.

Tanya had considered going to the police. But what would she say? They'd think she was crazy.

She decided that it was the drugs. They'd fucked up her wiring so badly that she was imagining things that weren't there.

So Tanya tried to tell herself that everything was in her head. But she couldn't quite convince herself of that—not when every cell in her body was telling her that _someone_ or _something_ was in fact watching her. And not only that, but _plotting_. Her stalker had a plan.

It had gotten so bad that Tanya would go so far as to glance up at a ceiling every now and then—a fucking _ceiling—_as if she expected to see that the roof was gone and two gigantic eyes were staring down at her. Like she was just a doll in a playhouse.

How fucked up was that?

Sometimes in life you get a chance to step outside yourself and consider your situation. Doctors call it a dissociative episode and spiritualists call it enlightenment but either way you look at it, shit's not normal. Tanya got that chance one afternoon as she lay on the floor of a cabin in the woods.

_Holy fuck_. She was looking down at herself, watching the lifeblood ooze out of her body.

She decided that she was high. That would explain it. She was tripping balls and when she came down she'd tell everyone how the journey 'cross the Styx was the best boat ride she'd ever taken. To hell and back. Like Persephone. She'd get to say that she'd fucked the king of hell and lived to tell the tale.

_I'll come back an angry ghost_, she vowed, just in case she really was dying.

But she'd used up all her rage in this lifetime, and hadn't any leftover for the next. There would be no haunting.

Tanya began to feel woozy and looked away from the blood. There was just so much of it.

Her hands spasmed against the floor of the cabin and Tanya blinked. Her moment of transcendental enlightenment—if that was what it was—was over and she was back inside her body again staring up at the ceiling of the cabin. The wood was all green-gray planks and black splotches. Had it always looked like that?

Tanya squinted. _What the fuck?_

There were two splotches in the center of the ceiling, larger than the others. Just like two eyes looking down at her.

_You_, Tanya thought. _You did this to me._

The eyes seemed to blink, or maybe that was just Tanya.

_Why?_ she asked the eyes.

There wasn't an answer.

_You always had it out for me_, Tanya thought angrily, staring at those eyes that were staring back down at her from top of that dollhouse-cabin where Tanya lay dying.

Tanya wondered if it had all been a test. Like in a fucked up episode of _The Twilight Zone_. If she'd only managed to identify her stalker soon enough she could have evaded death altogether.

Because there's always a test. That is, unless you're an atheist or one of those pagans who thinks that the afterlife's just dusty bread and shadowy corridors. Because otherwise, whether you think there's a God or a Devil or karma or just a strange pattern you haven't figured out yet or archons or Mithras or Atman Brahman or the sixty-four angel wards or Ahura Mazda or Yama or Thoth or Saint Peter or Ereshkigal or any number of other incarnations of Ma'at, that is, justice, then when a person dies, there's a test. You might have to cross a river, in which case you need a coin to pay the boatman, or a bridge, in which case you better know the passwords to get through the gate, but there's definitely a test. First there's the negative confession. You tell the hangman all the things you _didn't_ do to cover up for all the crimes that you _did _do. Then the dog-man takes your heart and weighs it against a feather. And dear God, if there is a God, or maybe dear Goddess or Lord of the Hunt or YHWH or Allah or Lord Buddha, or maybe just please please please, don't let your heart be too heavy. Because if it is, there's the pit for you. Even if that pit is just reincarnation because, really, who wants to go through all of this shit again? And there's no habituation either—remember your Dante—every time they set your skin on fire, it'll be like the very first time. You'll never get used to it. Just like you told all of those guys when you let them fuck in the back of their Chevies, _Feels like the first time_._ Like the very first time._

Tanya watched the eyes watching her die and hoped like hell that either there _wasn't_ a hell or that her heart was light enough to stay out of it.

Because the thing about that story with the monster at the end of the book—on the last page, the protagonist figures out that _he_ was the monster all along. He's the only one responsible for the mess he's in. It's clearly a case of author self-insert.

**AN: So I still don't entirely like this chapter but too many weeks have passed since I posted the previous one. I had to update, as the guilt of further delay was too much to bear. I hope you can see what I wanted this chapter to be, even if I didn't exactly accomplish it.**

**The next chapter is the epilogue to the previous chapter and assumes that the above fantasies are just that—fantasies. I have in fact already started that chapter so you shouldn't have to wait long. I hope.**

**Murder of crows – a "herd" of crows, or something like that**

**Ovid's **_**Metamorphosis**_** – the person who witnesses Persephone eating seven pomegranate seeds (meaning that she must remain in the underworld for seven months every year) is turned into a screech owl because Persephone's mother would have preferred her daughter staying out of the underworld altogether. **

**Aristotle – translation is mine but it's from memory and is probably a bit off as I didn't feel like looking it up again. **

**Capellanus – translation is John Parry's**

**Edmund Spencer's **_**The Faerie Queen: **__Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, But th' other halfe did womans shape retaine, Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine_…._A floud of poison horrible and blacke. His grip loosens and she turns Her vomit full of books and papers….with more than manly force, That from her body, full of filthie sin, He raft her hateful heade without remorse._

**Demiurge – according to some gnostics (**_**not**_** agnostics) the world, which was inherently wicked, couldn't have been created by God, who was inherently good. Therefore, it was the work of a demiurge.**

**Alice was reading to Jasper from Dashiell Hammett's **_**The Glass Key. **_

**Anubis (the dog-man) would weigh your heart against a feather when you died (after you made a negative confession bragging about all of the bad things you hadn't done). If your heart was too heavy – because you were wicked – it would be devoured or you would go to "hell." **

**Dante on habituation: It's not really hell if you can just get used to it. So he said that you never did. **

_**Feels like the first time The very first time**_** \- Foreigner**

**Monster at the end of the book – Grover from the Muppets is the monster. He does everything he can to keep the reader from turning the pages…until he realizes that **_**he**_** is the monster at the end.**

I do appreciate everyone telling me that this chapter has been particularly confusing! If you don't mind sending me a PM with particular areas of confusion (and suggestions?) I'd truly appreciate it. For instance, one reviewer has been explicit about one problem – I lost the reviewer on the Aristotle. I've aded specific questions below with the hope that they'll elicit more specifics like this.

Is it the fact that I'm providing alternatives? I know some readers don't like that, though one could argue that Fanfiction itself is an alternative to the original story. As noted above, my inspiration was the movie _Clue,_ which ends with several alternative endings to "who dun it." And I thought this chapter could also serve as an homage to all of the reviewers who were so kind as to share their theories.

Was it something in Option one? Edward could have done it if he was a vampire. His motive? He doesn't like how Bella doesn't fit in (Aristotle was all about clear-cut categories). So he decides to put the issue of her "deviation" from the norm to the test. He kills Tanya and waits to see what happens. "What happens" is relayed allegorically, via a morality tale, an homage to the fact that gothic literature originated as forgeries as medieval romances (which I thought would be a more interesting way of relaying a really boring series of events that the reader already knows [everything from Edward's arrest to the showdown in the factory] but I suspect just annoyed most readers). The allegory: Hero (Edward) + Beauty (Tanya) + Beast (Bella). Beauty dies and everyone thinks Hero did it. Conventional morality = Beast must die. So Beast dies and indeed Edward kills Bella (I didn't explicitly say, but this would have to be after their showdown with Victoria in the factory) only for him to realize that Bella's blood is really quite sweet, which contradicts the argument that she is a deviation, if by definition, a deviation = bad. This reinforces the falsification of the allegory – for the reader knows that the Hero really killed the Beauty and that the Beast was innocent, thereby demonstrating the baselessness of the very conventional morality and straightjacketed value systems that give rise to bullying.

\- Was it the allegory? Would you have simply summarized the ten intervening years? I was worried that this would be boring. Was I overreacting? How would you have done it? Was it something else?

Was it something in Option two? Bella could have done it if she had a split personality, "Izzy." The day of the murder, Izzy is dropping off something at the Cullens and sees Edward's keys in his Volvo. She sees him go hiking, assumes that he is going to the meadow and steals his car. The waitress, who was high, later reports that she saw someone who looked like Edward picking Tanya up. Jacob lied for Izzy and said that she went to the park the day of the murder. Izzy took a chance by saying that she saw Edward in the meadow, thereby giving him an alibi. Ten years later, Jacob was stalking Bella and killed Bree. After the showdown in the factory with Victoria, Jacob started a fight with Bella only for Bella to threaten him with her knowledge of his culpability in Bree's murder.

\- I thought that I summarized the ten intervening years effectively. Am I wrong? Was it something else?

Was it Option three? Jasper and Alice could have done it – Alice and Jasper meet in the airport in Seattle a few days before the murder. Both are supposed to be going to see their families. She and Jasper steal someone's keys and spend a few days in the guy's apartment. Alice is friends with a drug dealer named Laurent who asks her to bring him some drugs. Jasper and Alice bring Laurent the drugs at the cabin. Tanya is there. They all get high. Jasper comes to after a while and Tanya is dead. Both Jasper and Alice have blood on their hands. They leave and fight. Alice tells Laurent to make the waitress set up Edward. Ten years later, Jasper and Alice meet again and despite their falling out in the past, are attracted to each other once again.

\- Of the three, I thought this was the clearest. Was there something that didn't make sense?

Was it Option four? If Victoria didn't kill Tanya, we have to explain why she might think she was responsible. Edward/Izzy/Alice/Jasper/? must have talked Victoria into thinking that she did it.

\- To me, this was clear. Maybe that's because I'm a psycho.

Was it Option four? Blaming the victim – if we really do possess agency, and aren't just puppets of some sick god, then it was Tanya's fault that she ended up in that cabin bleeding to death, at least to the extent that her decisions led her there or otherwise couldn't figure out how to evade death (which she sensed was coming). Inspiration: Twilight Zone (woman stalked by Death)/Six Characters in Search of an Author (characters angry that one of them is going to die and calling the author out for his decision to pursue this plotline – much like some of you were angry at me for killing a golden retriever).

\- To me, this was just a mad riff. Allusions that might not make sense serve to reinforce the fact that death/life itself don't make sense. And again, I don't mind (I prefer) reading literature where things don't entirely make sense. If there was something in particular that you think could be improved, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Some reviewer suspicions aside, when Sharkjumper were discussing this ending, "making people feel stupid" did _not _cross our minds. We just thought it would be fun.

Thanks!


	30. Chapter 30

**Epilogue 1**

**Meyer owns all.**

BPOV

I knew that Edward was annoyed with me.

"Do you really think living with me would be so bad?" he'd asked.

No. I didn't think that living with Edward would be bad _per se_. It would just be very distracting.

Case in point: It was supposed to be a "lazy Saturday afternoon." Meaning that we were supposed to be "lazing" about my living room. Edward and I just had different ideas as to what that entailed.

We were both of us lounging as we read. I on the couch and Edward on the floor, his head on my knee.

He, of course, was reading a boring medical journal. I was reading Baudelaire's _Flowers of Evil_.

Edward sighed and closed the journal. "Let's watch a movie," he suggested.

I shook my head. "Reading. But I can go into the kitchen if you want to watch something."

"That's boring." Edward's reached for my bare knee, edging under my skirt.

I stopped Edward's hand from proceeding further up. "It's not my fault that you made a poor decision in reading material."

"What're you reading that's so fascinating?"

I told him, with an imperious tilt to my chin, daring him to scoff.

He hmphed. "Read it out loud. I'll judge for myself how good this Baudelaire guy is."

I suspected a trap, but started reading anyhow. "'My soul is a tomb where—bad monk that I be—'"

"Bad monk?" Edward interrupted.

I gazed at him.

"Bad, how?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"Like did he seduce the shepherdesses passing by the monastery?" Edward asked.

"There aren't any shepherdesses in the poem."

"There ought to be."

"Do you want me to read or don't you?" I asked.

"Read. Read." Edward wrapped an arm around my leg and tapped my knee to proceed. So I did.

"'Come to my arms, cruel and sullen thing; Indolent beast, come to my arms again.'"

Edward ran his hand up and down my leg pensively. "Where did the beast come from?" he interrupted again.

I sighed.

"Sorry," he apologized.

I proceeded again. "'And bury myself in you, and breathe your wild Perfume remorselessly for one more hour And breathe again, as of a ruined flower, The fragrance of the love you have defiled.'"

"Is this a poem about sex?" Edward inquired, feigning a tone of scandal.

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think you're reading porn," he chuckled. Edward's fingers ghosted to the top of my knee again and he turned his head, pressing a kiss into the soft flesh of my thigh as his fingers dipped under my knee to the sensitive skin there.

I stifled a gasp. I knew what he was doing, but I wouldn't let him distract me. Adopting a cool and distant tone, I began reading again. "'Blue, limpid, deep, like the virginity once known? Agatha, tell me, your heart—does it sometimes fly away?'"

Edward shifted then, rearranging himself so that he was sitting between my legs with his back towards me.

"What're you doing?" I asked, as he arranged my lower legs over his shoulders.

"Just getting comfy."

Who was I to deny the man his comfort? But still—this seemed but another move in Edward's project to distract me. Steeling myself to resist all assaults upon my concentration, I resumed reading. "'Useless to slide your hand like that along my breast—'" I stopped again.

Edward had begun stroking both of my legs, turning to kiss first one, then the other leg.

I read: "'That which it seeks, my dear, is plundered.'"

I swallowed hard as I felt the soft, wet caress of Edward's tongue just above my knee, on the lower thigh, and then the sharp pain of a small bite.

I gripped the book in my hands and forced myself to go on. "'O Beauty, iron flail of souls it is your will! So be it! Eyes of fire, bright in the darkness there Burn up these strips of flesh the beasts saw fit to spare.'"

Edward began slowly nibbling his way up my inner thigh. He drew away after a moment and blew on the wet flesh and I nearly hissed at the sensation, unable to continue reading.

He tapped me on the calf. "Keep reading," he ordered.

"But—"

"Keep reading," he growled, the tone of command in his voice sending a jolt through me.

I cleared my throat and started again. "'There, restraint and order bless Luxury and voluptuousness. We should have a room never out of bloom.'"

Edward turned around so that he was facing me and pushed his head under my skirt. "If you stop reading," he warned me, "I'll stop."

So much for wanting him to not distract me. His encouragement gave new vigor to my efforts. My voice sounding with renewed vigor. "'It speaks: "Beauty is mine; Authority is mine."'"

I felt the tip of Edward's nose graze my panties and I stuttered to a stop again.

He bit the inside of my thigh right next to the panty line. "Keep reading," he barked.

"'The adored one, naked, knowing my unspoken prayer, Wore only her loud jewels.'"

My voice was shaking.

Edward's nose was just ghosting along my panties, barely grazing the flesh underneath. I couldn't help pushing my hips towards him, wanting more.

He stopped me and suddenly pulled out from under my skirt. I started to complain, but was cut short when Edward pulled me down so that my core met the edge of the sofa. He began pushing the dress up my legs. "Off." I lifted my pelvis so that he could push the dress over my hips and dropped the book so that he could pull the dress over my head.

He leaned back on his heels and stared at me for a minute.

I had, it is true, been paying extra attention to my undergarments in recent months. But even so, I didn't think that the black and white ensemble that I was wearing just then was particularly fetching. Yet what the hell did I know? Because Edward was staring at me like—

Like I was made of sex.

I felt myself growing wetter. Because yes, I was already more than wet.

He reached up and I thought he was going to remove my bra, but instead he pulled down the top of the cups so that my nipples fell out.

I felt so exposed. Nearly naked. And with the clothes and the shoes—simple flats though they may have been—that I was still wearing, making me feel all the more naked by virtue of the contradiction. Especially as he was still completely dressed.

His hands hesitated over my breasts and I arched, hoping that he would touch them. He flicked the nipples, nothing more, and I started to reach for him, to make him do more. But he stopped me.

"Keep reading," he said, pushing the book into my hand and adjusting me so that I was holding the book to the side. So that Edward could see my face as he continued to touch me.

I began reading again as best as I could, stuttering. "'Her eyes on mine like a trained tigress fixedly, she tried successive poses.'"

He flicked my nipples again and cupped my breasts—I paused again and he began to back away but I quickly resumed—squeezing my breasts softly as his lips dropped to my stomach, his mouth moving lower, biting my flesh whenever my voice wavered.

"'The interplay of arms and legs, loins belly, thighs, As smooth as oil and undulant as the neck of a swan.'"

"Do you want me to touch you?" he asked when he reached my core, then bit my already throbbing clit through the fabric of my panties.

I cried out, jerking in pleasure.

"Do you?" he asked again.

I stuttered as I answered in the affirmative.

"Then you know what to do," he said as he started pulling my panties down.

The pace of my reading picked up, my tongue stumbling over the words in my haste. "'And now her breasts, those fruits I have grown lean upon.'"

I groaned and my eyes involuntarily closed as I felt Edward's tongue swipe my entrance, then dart inside of me.

I forced myself to go on reading for fear that he would stop. "'She dazzles like the break of day, She comforts like the fall of night. My senses seem to merge in one.'"

He replaced his tongue with his fingers as his mouth worked my clit.

"'True love," I cried out again, "'all that it may become, With its dark glamour in our manes.' I mean 'veins.'" I corrected, having flubbed the line. "'With its dark glamour in our veins.'"

"Concentrate," Edward chastened, drawing back.

_Damn him!_ "'Did he at length, that man, his awful thirst too great For living flesh to satisfy, On this inert obedient body consummate His lust?—O ravished corpse, reply!'"

Edward pinned my hips down to stop me from grinding against him as the words began to swim before my eyes. I was about to—

The next thing I knew, he'd flipped me over so that I was kneeling in front of him, my front resting on the cushions of the couch, and he was entering me from behind. When had he undone his pants?

"Read!" Edward groaned, having paused, his hips flush with mine, the sensation of him filling me pushing all cogent thought from my skull.

"What—?" I asked.

"Read!" he ordered again, tapping my hip.

I pushed back, desperate for him to move, but he only pressed me firmer up against the couch.

"Do you want me to move?" Edward asked, pausing to softly bite the back of my neck. "Then you know what you have to do."

I'd dropped the book. Hurriedly, I grabbed it again, and opening to a page at random, began to read. "'Demoniac kisses all obscure desires released.''"

Edward pulled out slowly and thrust back quickly, shoving me up against the couch. I dropped a hand to the back of the couch trying to gain some leverage as one of his hands slid around to my clit. I cried out again as he pinched me.

"Keep reading!"

"'One sequined stocking pink against the milky thigh, Remains.'"

He pulled out again slowly, and thrust in again just as slowly. I whimpered. He pulled out more quickly and rammed into me and I couldn't help begging.

"Please."

"What?" he asked, pulling out with excruciating slowness again.

"Fuck me."

"Keep reading," he barked as he slammed in again.

And I tried, I really tried, gasping over half phrases and re-reading the same line over and over again as he entered me over and over again, closing my eyes and repeating the same words as the hand playing with my clit moved around to hold my hip in place as his other hand slid up to my breast, quickly squeezing it before he began pinching the nipple.

"'Naked, in loose abandon lies, Its secret parts exposed its treasures all outspread As if to charm a lover's eyes.'"

Edward was kissing and licking his way up my spine, pausing to nip at my neck.

"'I imagined I could breathe the perfume of your blood.'"

Edward drew back again and held away so long that I was about to complain when he reentered me harder than before, and then began to set a grueling pace, ramming in and out of me.

"I—I—" I gasped as Edward pinched my clit again and I came, _Flowers of Evil_ completely forgotten.

Edward followed a few beats later, groaning something about a "stupid fucking book."

See? Very distracting indeed.

**AN: So this chapter was supposed to have more stuff in it…but I'm clearly procrastinating. So I decided to post what I have and post more later. Thanks for reading!**

**Also, I'm posting the outtakes as a separate story. If you've reviewed every chapter then you've already read these…except for the last one, which is a very childish and spiteful outtake indeed.**

Baudelaire quotes:

'My soul is a tomb where—bad monk that I be—' from The Evil Monk trans. Cyril Scott

The rest translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay

"'Come to my arms, cruel and sullen thing; Indolent beast, come to my arms again…And bury myself in you, and breathe your wild Perfume remorselessly for one more hour And breathe again, as of a ruined flower, The fragrance of the love you have defiled.'" Lethe

'Blue, limpid, deep, like the virginity once known? Agatha, tell me, your heart—does it sometimes fly away?' Maesta et Errabunda

"'Useless to slide your hand like that along my breast; That which it seeks, my dear, is plundered…O Beauty, iron flail of souls it is your will! So be it! Eyes of fire, bright in the darkness there Burn up these strips of flesh the beasts saw fit to spare.'" Episode

"'There, restraint and order bless Luxury and voluptuousness. We should have a room never out of bloom.'" Invitation to the Voyage

"'It speaks: "Beauty is mine; Authority is mine."'" What Shall You Say Tonight?

"'The adored one, naked, knowing my unspoken prayer, Wore only her loud jewels….Her eyes on mine like a trained tigress fixedly, she tried successive poses….The interplay of arms and legs, loins belly, thighs, As smooth as oil and undulant as the neck of a swan…"'And now her breasts, those fruits I have grown lean upon.'" The Jewels

"'She dazzles like the break of day, She comforts like the fall of night. My senses seem to merge in one.'" All, All

"'True love—all that it may become, With its dark glamour in our veins.'" The Murderer's Wine

"'Naked, in loose abandon lies, Its secret parts exposed its treasures all outspread As if to charm a lover's eyes…One sequined stocking pink against the milky thigh, Remains…Demoniac kisses all obscure desires released…Did he at length, that man, his awful thirst too great For living flesh to satisfy, On this inert obedient body consummate His lust?—O ravished corpse, reply!'" Murdered Woman

"'I imagined I could breathe the perfume of your blood.'" The Balcony


	31. Chapter 31

**Epilogue 2**

**Disclaimer: S Meyer owns the characters of **_**Twilight**_**. I own the plot of **_**Gothic**_**. The Montaigne quote below was translated by Charles Cotton.**

Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter what fork you use. – Emily Post

Nothing is less important than which fork you use. Etiquette is the science of living. It embraces everything. It is ethics. It is honor. – Emily Post

"Are you alright?" I asked. I was treading carefully. Whenever my mother was angry about something, it would come around and bite me in the ass, even it had nothing to do with me.

Edward wasn't my mother. But still—I didn't know how I should handle what was happening right now.

It was Edward's last week in the ER. We were supposed to be celebrating tonight with dinner at a fancy French restaurant with too many forks and fancy-schmancy patrons who made me feel like I didn't belong. I was looking forward to sticking my elbows on the table.

But when I arrived at Edward's apartment (in my brand new-to-me thrift shop little black dress), I found him sitting on the couch, still dressed in his hospital scrubs, guzzling a bottle of beer, with two empty bottles at his feet.

In lieu of an answer, he just shrugged and kept on drinking.

"Do you want me to get you something?" I asked, trying to sound helpful. I'd be happy to get him a stiff cup of coffee. Then he could jump in the shower and we could go.

He held up one of the empty bottles. Taking the hint, I went to the kitchen to get him some more.

_Is this what enabling feels like?_ I wondered, as I handed the beer over.

I didn't want to sit here and watch Edward get wasted. It would remind me too much of my mother.

I wasn't sure of the rules, though. As his girlfriend, wasn't I required to stick around and make sure that he was alright?

It seemed like a bullshit deal to me. Edward was the one fucking himself up.

And I could feel it, the vicious indifference welling up inside of me.

Nevertheless, I knew it wasn't fair to blame Edward for all of the shit that my mother put me through. So I forced myself to take a seat on the couch next to Edward and considered my next steps. Should I start rubbing his shoulders? Take off his shoes?

If our situation was reversed, and Edward started fucking with my shoulders, I'd tell him to get lost.

To be honest, if I were him, I'd be pacing and complaining about whatever it was that was upsetting me. I wouldn't be sitting there quietly. I'd be vocal as hell, and I'd want him to sit there and listen to me, and to agree to everything I said. Agreeing with me would be very important.

Then we'd watch an episode of _Ash vs Evil Dead_ while I sipped hot chocolate.

This "brooding" that he was doing right now was a one-man operation. It wasn't like I could agree with him when he wasn't saying a word.

Or maybe I was supposed to brood alongside him in solidarity.

I could do that.

It would be boring—I was already bored—but I could sit here doing nothing for a while.

First, I tried thinking about work. But that just made my fingers itch for a pad of paper so that I could jot down some notes for the next day's lecture. I figured it would be rude to pull out the tiny notebook that I carried around in my purse, which meant that I couldn't pull out my phone either.

There had to be advice on what to do in this kind of situation.

And there was. Consolation was a favorite of the philosophers, whether it was consoling a friend who was merely disappointed or a family member in full-blown grief or an ally who was ready to tear of the head of an enemy.

Yet Montaigne said that most of the philosophers got it wrong. They'd try to console a person by pointing out how shameful it is to pity yourself or by babbling how a "good" man can't really be hurt—because the maintenance of virtue is all that matters, and virtue is entirely within a man's own hands. A lot of goody-two shoe sounding nonsense. Instead, Montaigne said you should just talk to a person, and gradually lead him onto the subject of happier topics.

But how could I do that if Edward wouldn't talk?

There was supposed to be a whole collection of subtle non-verbal physical cues by which people communicated (or so my self-help books claims). If that was really true, then Edward would be able to pick up on my sympathy—or was it empathy?—my sympathy for his situation merely by the way I held myself.

I surreptitiously slipped my mirror out of my purse so that I could check my expression. My features were cast in a more or less blank visage—which didn't mean that I wasn't feeling something, if anything, it meant that I _was_ feeling something (remember Montaigne: "indeed, the violence and impression of an excessive grief must of necessity astonish the soul, and wholly deprive her of her ordinary functions"), but I could see how it might be confusing if it looked like I was unmoved by whatever Edward was going through. I wasn't sure what an expression of pity was supposed to look like, so I went for sad and slouched my shoulders, adopting an overall downtrodden pose.

Putting the mirror away, I waited for Edward to pick up on my physical cues. And as I waited, I began to wonder what had him so upset.

Perhaps something had happened to his parents. I felt a pang of real anxiety. I hoped that they were okay.

Maybe it had something to do with his transfer from the ER. I knew that Edward wanted to get out of there.

What if he'd set his sights too high? I was firmly of the opinion that it was a mistake to let yourself get your hopes up. As Montaigne put it: "Let us evermore, amidst our jollity and feasting, set the remembrance of our frail condition before our eyes."

Somehow, I didn't think that telling Edward that would make him feel any better.

Maybe it was enough that I was just sitting here, the company alone a boon to Edward in his misery.

Of course, I could always tell him to buck up and get over it. If I were in his place I'd either rage around or shut down. Shoving grief to the side and carrying on was far more efficient than sitting here, wallowing.

On the other hand, wallowing had a purpose, didn't it? Wasn't that the function of pain—to make you hurt so much that next time you avoided the source of the agony? You only had to burn yourself on a hot stove once, for instance. People with analgesia—with no sense of pain—died young because they ended up walking around with broken arms that turned septic, not realizing that they'd even hurt themselves. And those damn self-help experts always said that pessimists died young—which I thought was kind of a stupid thing to say to someone who already had low expectations—but it made sense that we pessimists would die young if our pessimism was born of untreated broken hearts. We die of sepsis.

Or something like that.

Shoving pain to the side and ignoring it didn't mean that I was devoid of feelings. I wasn't a sociopath. I wasn't like that replicant from _Bladerunner_, who didn't know that you're supposed to turn a turtle over when you find it struggling on its back. Helping a turtle is the _human _thing to do. The _compassionate_ thing to do. I'd totally turn a turtle over.

But it's an easy decision when it comes to a dumb animal. Humans are another thing. When it comes to them, isn't it better to just mind your own business? Respecting another person's privacy can be a kind of compassion.

Which is why I've always figured that it's better to leave a person alone when he's hurting, instead of poking and prodding at the wound and demanding details.

That was what Edward would do. Always prodding. Asking questions and wanting to know what happened, like he could fix disappointment or grief just like any physical ailment.

I wouldn't prod and poke at him—and not because I didn't care, goddammit, but because I _could_ feel it. I could _feel_ that he was hurting, and it was like getting open heart surgery without anesthetics.

But this wasn't about me.

So I asked him again.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He took another swig of his beer, not answering.

Was I supposed to let it go? Or was I supposed to keep pushing?

I didn't know.

I was fairly certain that he wasn't upset with me. I hadn't done anything out of the usual lately.

But maybe that was it. The fact that I _hadn't_ done anything out of the usual. Maybe he was sick of the status quo.

Well, if that was the case, he could just come out and say it, instead of sitting here like a little punk, wasting my time, dragging out my agony and—

"A kid came into the ER tonight," he said, his voice gravelly.

"Oh." I wasn't sure if that was the end of the story. A kid coming into the ER was bad enough, wasn't it? Kids didn't belong in ERs. They belonged on playgrounds. And Edward wouldn't be this upset unless something really bad had happened.

"Do you want kids?" Edward asked abruptly, slurring slightly.

Was he serious? Did he really want to have this discussion right now?

He had mentioned kids before, but this was the first time he had laid it out there like we were actually going to talk about it, instead of just making a joke and moving on.

No. No, I didn't want kids. I'd fuck 'em up. And I couldn't do that to someone. I couldn't—

But if Edward wanted them, if he agreed to do whatever it took to make sure that I couldn't fuck 'em up—_Like what? Create a perfect little robot me that would take care of them and always say the right thing and make sure that the kid knew that he or she was loved and cared for, because I'm not good at showing what I think—I mean what I _feel.

Why was Edward doing this now? Where the hell was this coming from?

"Do you want them?" I asked cautiously, which was bullshit, because he was the one who'd asked me. But maybe he didn't really want kids, and maybe I could get out of this, and neither one of us would be put in the position of fucking up some innocent child.

Except that now he was nodding. He wanted kids.

"I'm scared," I said.

That took him by surprise. Hell, it took _me_ by surprise.

He was giving me a weird look. "Scared of what?" Like he thought that I was going to say that I was worried about gaining weight or the pain of childbirth, both of which were bad enough—I've never had the best body image and I'm stubborn enough to try and go it without an epidural—but really, it was the fear of the power that it would give me over another human being.

"It's a lot," I said. "A kid. I mean, what do you do with them?"

If anything, Edward looked even more confused. "You love them."

Of course you love them. That wasn't what I was asking. "But what if you mess up? Or what if you don't mess up, and despite doing everything right, they're born wrong and they grow up to be a serial killer or something?"

Edward snorted. "Our kids wouldn't be serial killers."

"Really? With _me_ as a mother?"

A child of mine would probably end up like those poor orphaned monkeys that go crazy because they've never experienced a mother's touch.

And Edward was drunk and he'd had a bad day at work and he was taking it out on me with fucked up questions.

Some father he'd be.

He shrugged. "Maybe you're right. I shouldn't have kids."

That just sparked an irrational burst of anger inside of me. Who the fuck was Edward to doubt his ability to be a father? It was one thing for me to harbor doubts on the subject, but Edward questioning himself was another matter entirely.

"You'd be a great father," I said, a note of annoyance creeping into my voice.

"Maybe." He shook his head. "My parents were good—I think they were at least—and look how I turned out."

And that was it. Something inside of me snapped. Maybe I was overreacting, but this bullshit 'woe is me' act was the same thing that my mother would always pull. And if I tried to tell her that she was wrong, that she was putting herself down unfairly, she'd lash out at me.

"Fuck you," I said, standing.

"Where are you going?" Edward looked a little shocked.

"Away. Until you stop feeling sorry for yourself. You wanna tell me what's wrong so that we can deal with it, I'll come back. Until then, I'm out of here."

"You can't go." Edward stood up to stop me, swaying slightly.

I couldn't help the impulse to pull away. "You're drunk. And what—you expect me to stick around and take care of you? You did this to yourself."

"Please stay," he grabbed onto my arm.

"I'll stay if you tell me what's wrong."

I was manipulating him. But then, he was manipulating me too, wasn't he?

Nevertheless, my argument prevailed.

We sat down and he told me just what had happened that day in the ER.

And I felt like vomiting.

As I sat there next to him on the couch, my hands shaking and tears threatening to spill from my eyes, I felt like he should be the one comforting me, not the other way around. Why the fuck had he told me something so awful? It wasn't like I could do anything about it.

There had to be some charity that I could volunteer for that worked with kids—I could collect donations or something, I wouldn't have to work with the kids directly, because I'd suck at that—but I couldn't do anything about the kid who had come into Edward's ER that day.

And that wouldn't help Edward. "What do you want me to do?" I asked at last, because I didn't know how to fix it.

"Just sit here," he said, pulling me close.

So I did.

**AN:**

**Please come see me on** mindsworth dot blog** where I'm publishing original fiction and articles on culture, cooking, et cetera (other authors on this site are writing about politics, history, and whatever else pops into their heads). I'd also love to hear from you on Twitter (hastevenson). **

**You might have noticed that I've added two new stories on Fanfiction. While they're posting, I'll be working on a sequel to **_**Gothic **_**that covers Edward and Bella's initial forays into dating as they become embroiled in another mystery. **

**I hope to hear from you! **


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